Crash Course
by QoS
Summary: An accident turns the Stunticons into humans. Now the Decepticons think they're traitors, while the other humans think they're eccentric, dangerous... and occasionally, dead sexy. And it only gets worse from there. Written by Anon Decepticon & QoS.
1. Start Your Engines

**CRASH COURSE**

_Authors' note: This fic was inspired by Monoshiri's "Running on Empty", a story where the Stunticons are turned into humans. We both liked the idea and the fic, but since it was last updated in 2006 and will probably never be finished, we decided to write our own Stunticons-turned-human story._

_Hope you enjoy reading it. – Anon_Decepticon and QoS/mdperera_

_Thanks also to Kookaburra 1701 for her support and input!_

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**Chapter 1 : Start Your Engines**

Breakdown swerved onto the highway in the last drive he would take for a very long time.

He didn't know that yet. He was on just another assignment, scouting ahead as the Stunticons headed out to guard yet another device of Megatron's. The sun was bright overhead, the road deserted. There was no one in sight and Breakdown relaxed, increasing his speed and starting to enjoy the drive even with his sensors monitoring every mile of the way.

He saw a yellow blur in his rear-view mirror as Drag Strip zoomed up, leaving Wildrider and Dead End in a cloud of smoke and dust. Breakdown moved to give him more room; he certainly didn't mind Drag Strip roaring on ahead and attracting all the attention of whoever was currently on guard at the device.

Instead the racecar kept pace with him and his radio crackled. "So what's this device all about?" Drag Strip's gravelly voice said.

_He wants something_, Breakdown knew at once. Drag Strip never caught up like that just for small talk.

"It's a matter-energy convertible," he said. "I mean, converter. Supposed to make energon out of rocks and sand, I guess." Starscream had been vocal in his declarations that the device would never work or would destroy them all when it did, so the Constructicons had obligingly set it up far from the base and were preparing to field-test it soon.

Drag Strip chuckled. "Maybe we'll catch an Autobot and turn it on him." There was a pause while Breakdown listened to the rumble of powerful well-tuned engines and the distant pounding of hard rock that signaled Wildrider's presence. "Look, Breaks, do me a favor."

_And here it comes._ Breakdown waited.

"I want to win the Formula One World Championship."

Breakdown couldn't help snickering. "Yeah? I want to rule Cybertron."

Drag Strip slewed hard in his direction, just enough to slam one forcefield against another with an electronic _szzzt_. Not expecting that, Breakdown skidded a little from the impact before he recovered.

"I'm serious!" Drag Strip snapped, all the wheedling gone from his voice.

"Okay, okay! Sorry I laughed. Go on with what you were saying about the, uh, Formica One Championship."

Drag Strip growled under his breath, but continued. "I can't just show up there. I'll need to be entered in their databanks, with a legal history and all that slag. I need you to take care of that."

"Huh?" Breakdown had thought he would be asked to provide a new paintjob and a cheering section. "You want me to hack into their computers for you?"

Another channel on the radio opened automatically and Motormaster's cold voice cut in. "Stunticons, get to our destination _now_. There's a report of Autobot activity near the converter_._"

"Right," Breakdown said and Motormaster cut the comm. The semi was miles behind them, his top speed nowhere near theirs. Breakdown floored his accelerator.

Drag Strip kept pace with him easily. "So you're gonna do it?"

Breakdown considered. He enjoyed hacking into human networks – it was like scouting, except that no one out there could see him when he did it. But the last time he had done that, on Motormaster's orders, he had actually gotten into the Pentagon's security systems when the Autobots had detected the activity. And they had tried to piggyback a virus onto his downloads, a virus that would have done Primus-knew-what to the network on the _Nemesis_.

Fortunately Soundwave had caught the attempt and Motormaster had made the report to Megatron as well as taken the responsibility for it. But the near-miss was worrying, and Breakdown had decided that the next time he would have to be more careful. He also knew that he couldn't take that risk just for Drag Strip's race.

The correct access road was only a mile away. Breakdown sent a quick transmission to let Motormaster know they would be at the test site in a few minutes, then swerved off the highway. In his rear-view mirror he saw Dead End and Wildrider closing the distance.

"Well?" Drag Strip said impatiently.

"I don't think I can," Breakdown said. "At least, not now. I could try for next year's championship." He drove off the access road, all but bouncing over uneven ground as he headed for the coordinates they had been given.

"Next year's?" Drag Strip repeated. "Why can't you do it now?"

There was no road that led to the test site. Breakdown's tires kicked up dust as he dodged boulders, and he kept a wary optic on Drag Strip in case the racecar tried to cut in front of him. He cut enough speed to take a ledge that skirted a shallow valley that looked as though a river had flowed through it a thousand years before. The test site was just ahead.

"If you want to race so badly, why don't you take part in one of those road rallies?" he said. He came to the end of the ledge and took a sharp turn.

"Can't you tell the difference between the most famous open-wheel car world championship and a stupid little illegal rally?" Drag Strip said contemptuously as they shot into a bare clearing with sheer cliff faces cutting off most exit routes. He braked to a screeching halt and transformed, optics glowing behind his visor. "Millions of people will watch me winning! I'll get a gold cup."

Breakdown was still in alt-mode, but he shuddered involuntarily at the thought of so many humans staring. Drag Strip saw that and sneered.

"What a wimp," he said to the clearing in general. "Just because you're scared…"

Breakdown transformed as well, determined to ignore him. He was more or less used to Drag Strip's snippy, spoiling-for-a-fight attitude, though he had never understood it. _If _I_ were the smallest of the team, I wouldn't draw any extra attention to myself._

He looked around, feeling uneasy. The matter-energy converter stood in the center of the clearing on a raised platform. It gleamed even though a fine coating of dust, all levers and darkened indicators and still dials, but no one else was there. Breakdown opened a comm line at once.

"Dead End," he said, "who's supposed to be guarding this?" Were they hiding somewhere, watching him?

"Swindle, Vortex and Brawl," Dead End replied. "Why, have they abandoned their posts or did the Autobots kill them? Or both?"

In the distance Breakdown heard gunfire and a furious roar that sounded like Brawl on a rampage. "I think they're enraging the 'bots."

"I think you may have meant 'engaging', but that works as well," Dead End murmured. "We'll be there in a minute."

Drag Strip had been listening to the exchange with his arms folded and a stormy look on his faceplate, but he started again as soon as Breakdown ended the transmission. "I'm not asking you to do anything difficult. Just to help me enter a race-"

"You don't think it's difficult to come up with an entirely new identity and history for you, and fake every record which backs that up?" Breakdown felt as though he had finally had enough. "And that's _before_ hacking into the network? And that's assuming none of the humans get auspicious about why they never heard of you? If it's not that difficult, you do it!"

He punctuated that closing remark with a shove to Drag Strip's chest just beside the engine block. Ordinarily the most that would have done would have been to send Drag Strip stumbling back a step, but Drag Strip was standing on a loose rock at the moment. The push sent him off-balance, the stone turned under his foot and he fell flat on his aft just as Dead End and Wildrider drove into the clearing.

He leaped up, optics burning, and transformed. Breakdown reverted to alt-mode almost as fast, and Wildrider's excited call of, "Are you guys playing a game?" was nearly drowned out by the snarl of Drag Strip's engine. Breakdown threw his transmission into reverse and hit his accelerator just as Drag Strip all but leaped forward at him.

A contest of speed between him and Drag Strip wouldn't have been much of a fight, so Breakdown smashed his accelerator flat and raced backwards to where Dead End and Wildrider had braked to a halt. Drag Strip zoomed after him, engine revving hard.

Breakdown flicked his forcefield off and threw all his weight sideways. He flipped on to two tires and drove almost edgewise between Dead End and Wildrider, allowing himself to thump back on to all four wheels once he was past them. Behind him, he heard a harsh electric crackle as Drag Strip's forcefield impacted almost solidly onto both of theirs, and even though each of them weighed far more than the racecar did, they rocked back from the momentum.

Wildrider was the first to recover, and let out a whoop. "That was awesome, Breaky! Can I play too?"

"Stay the frag out of this!" Drag Strip snapped, reversing.

"Sheesh! _Fine_, Motormaster. I'll go see if that thing's made any energon yet." Wildrider transformed and hopped up on to the platform, poking curiously at the matter-energy converter.

"Wildrider…" Dead End began warningly, just as the converter's activation lights glowed like beacons. The device let out a deep _thrummm_. Startled, Breakdown glanced at it… and nearly missed Drag Strip's furious charge straight at him, so fast that all he registered was a yellow flash heading straight at him like a missile.

He squeaked and activated his forcefield just in time. Drag Strip rammed into him, jolting him back several feet. His forcefield flickered from the crash. Then Drag Strip backed up again, clearly intending to repeat the maneuver.

Suddenly Breakdown was angry too. He revved his own engine in the sharp debilitating vibrations that could sabotage any mechanical device in the vicinity, and raced ahead at Drag Strip, who flung his own transmission into reverse and fled around the platform. Wildrider had produced an empty cube and was holding that under the converter, which hummed even more loudly.

"Breakdown, stop!" Dead End shouted, but it was already too late. Breakdown shot around the platform in the other direction, engine howling. Drag Strip froze with an inarticulate yell as his systems stuttered.

So did the converter. There was a sharp _crack_ and Wildrider leaped back as the converter shook on its base. Breakdown shut his engine off in dawning horror and transformed to get a better look, though once he had seen that every needle on every dial was creeping into the red zone he backed away fast.

That was when he heard Motormaster's approach – a sound like thunder made solid. Wildrider scrambled off the platform and came to stand beside Dead End.

"We don't know anything, right?" he said rapidly. "I mean, it was like that when we got here. Right?"

The huge semi lumbered into the mouth of the clearing just as the converter let out a high-pitched electronic shriek. Then it sprayed incandescent white light over the entire clearing. Breakdown felt the light burn through his frame as though neither forcefield nor armor existed, and then everything went dark.

* * *

When Breakdown came back online, the first thing he registered was an unpleasant grittiness against his faceplate. His optics were still offline, and his systems still recovering from the aftereffects of the blast – he could tell his engine had seized up and his self-diagnostics were offline as well, since nothing showed in his HUD.

He onlined his optics, getting his arms under him as he pushed up and braced for a visual inspection of the damage. _Slagging Drag Strip. If I have to go to the repair bay and have the Constructicons staring at me, he's coming t—_

He froze. His thoughts came to a halt. The world stopped turning.

The hands splayed out on the ground before him were no longer covered with dark blue plating. They were flesh, the skin was wrinkled over the joints and there wasn't a transformation seam in sight.

He turned his head slowly. The hands were connected to the limbs that were currently propping him up, and those joined his shoulders.

Breakdown shook off the shock. _I'm halli… hallo… hallucinating_. For the first time, he couldn't even feel pleased that he had found the correct word and pronounced it properly. He offlined his optics, though even as he did so he noticed that his vision didn't dim out and go to black as it usually did – instead it went straight from seeing to not. _That's just damage. Just wait a few moments and online them again and everything will be back to normal._

Someone moved at the entrance to the clearing. Someone else groaned softly, far to his right. The matter-energy converter was ominously silent, as was his radio. Breakdown refused to consider the implications of either. Getting his processors and visual system back in working order was his first priority.

He onlined his optics again.

The hands had not changed, except that now the pale slivers at the tips of each digit – _the fingernails_, he thought dimly – were digging deep into the sand, into the tire-tracks that he had left there. The hands felt proportional to him, but he had never seen grains of sand so large.

_But it's not that _they're_ large, is it?_ he thought with a sickening dread.

He couldn't look and yet he had no other choice. The hands pushed up and the rest of his body folded, knees bending as his torso became upright. And it did so without any of the sounds Breakdown took for granted – the soft clank of metallic plates and limb components, the easy slide of joints in oiled sockets, the whisper-hum of Cybertronian systems and the whir of internal fans. All he heard was the rasp of rapid ventilations as he looked down at himself.

Sand still clung to the human form that he saw. The chest rose and fell with his breathing, in a way that his undercarriage would never have done. He couldn't see his engine or transmission or tires anywhere.

_No_, he thought_. No, please, no. This has to be a trick of some kind. A hologram maybe. _He poked the side of his thigh.

The limb was unpleasantly solid and warm and… and covered with _hair_. Breakdown snatched his hand away and flailed it desperately, as he would have shaken off cyber-leeches on his plating. Maybe if he just did that hard enough the flesh would fall off like a glove to reveal cobalt-blue metal beneath.

The hand remained at the end of his arm, flopping like a starfish.

_Not a hologram._ Breakdown wanted to dig a hole in the ground and disappear into it, forever.

That was when it occurred to him to wonder what had happened to his teammates, and he raised his head. The sight was a worse shock than his own sudden change. Nearest to the matter-energy converter, which seemed to have tripled in size, another human form lay on the ground. It propped itself up on its elbows and shook its head in a sharp, pull-yourself-together movement. The helm was gone, replaced by a covering of pale organic fiber.

As if it was all happening from a great distance, Breakdown saw his hand lift to touch his own head. He felt hair and dropped his hand at once.

Two more humans stood a few yards away, to the right. One stared down at its hands, then turned them over slowly and repeated the inspection. The other looked all over itself, craning its neck to see its back and touching everything in sight, including the dark reddish hair that covered its head and sprouted between its legs.

Breakdown looked away, feeling nauseated. He'd seen plenty of humans before, but rarely if ever without their clothes on. And it was vaguely repulsive how featureless human bodies were except for two tiny knobs on the chestplate, a set of bulging ridges leading down to a shallow port of some kind in the abdominal area, and some limp, unidentifiable kibble dangling below.

He wanted his own pelvic unit back, with its smooth warm plating painted a pristine white. But that was gone along with the bright distinctive colors of his teammates, replaced by dull monochromatic schemes in varying shades of beige. He didn't need to touch his own back to know that his hood and roof and spoiler had disappeared as well.

He wondered how he would ever see what was behind him again, without a rear-view mirror.

Someone grunted with effort. Breakdown glanced at the opening of the clearing. The human who stood there was taller than the others and broader too, with hair so dark that it seemed to absorb all the sun that fell on it, reflecting none of the light. One of the human's large hands was held just before its chest, and the fingers opened and closed repeatedly.

_He's trying to draw a weapon from subspace_, Breakdown thought. The hand stayed empty.

Then the human looked up from the useless attempt and stared at him with violet eyes the color of Motormaster's optics.

Breakdown scrambled up as he would have done reflexively if Motormaster had glared at him, preparing to run or dodge a blow. But once he had done that, he couldn't move. _Where would I go? What am I going to do now? _He felt sand under the bare thrusterless soles of his feet. A drop of liquid the same temperature as his plating – _no, skin_ – trickled down his back strut, even though he knew it wasn't raining.

The last human, the one with the blond hair, was on his feet as well by then, but no one said anything. Breakdown couldn't have made a sound in any case, not even to scream in horror. His vocalizer had locked up so much that it seemed to fill his throat and just breathing was enough of an effort. _And it can't be real if we don't mention it_, he thought in desperation. He clenched his fists and stared at the cliff face just behind the converter.

"Slag," said a voice with Wildrider's distinct Texan accent, and Breakdown's gaze went to the red-haired man as if drawn by a magnet. "How weird _is_ this, guys? We're all human!"


	2. Where the Rubber Meets the Road

_Authors' note: Chapter 2 already! This time Dead End gets to voice his oh-so-cheery opinion of the situation, so expect much doom and gloom as tensions start to rise._

– _anon_decepticon and QoS/mdperera_

_Thanks also to Kookaburra 1701 for her support and input!_

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**Chapter 2 : Where the Rubber Meets the Road**

They were doomed.

Dead End had suspected when he awoke from recharge that morning that today would be a bad day. He tended to think that about every day ever since he'd first onlined in front of Vector Sigma, but never before had his dire predictions fallen so utterly short of reality. The horror of their current situation was so far beyond anything he could have imagined that any prior prognostications seemed downright _optimistic_ by comparison.

That fact that Megatron's machine had been destroyed by his gestaltmates' idiocy came as no surprise. The fact that his efforts to stop them had gone ignored was likewise predictable.

What _hadn't_ been predictable was what had happened next.

"How weird_ is _this, guys? We're all human!"

As one they turned to look at the human who'd spoken with Wildrider's voice – _but not really his voice,_ Dead End mused – the accent was recognizable, but the sound of it was somehow _wrong_ – and then to the one that had Motormaster's violet optics – _eyes,_ he corrected himself, _they're called_ eyes – their gazes questioning.

Motormaster – and it _was_ Motormaster, flesh wrapper aside, just as he was Dead End and Wildrider was Wildrider and the humans with hair that shone blue-black and gold in the bright desert sunlight were Breakdown and Drag Strip – stared back at them and opened his mouth to speak, but was interrupted by a violent tremor that shook the ground beneath their feet.

It was an impact tremor, and many others followed it in rapid succession, creating a continuous series of vibrations not unlike the seaquakes that occasionally shook the _Victory_, except _this_ quake was coming closer, approaching them with alarming speed. The Combaticons who'd been originally charged with guarding Megatron's matter-energy converter – Swindle, Vortex and Brawl – were returning.

Motormaster finally found his voice. "_Run!_" he commanded.

They ran.

"Why are we running?" Wildrider asked, turning his head to look at Motormaster as he spoke and tripping over a clump of creosote in the process that sent him sprawling. He was back on his feet again almost immediately, pounding after them in an effort to catch up.

Motormaster didn't slacken his pace. "Because if Vortex and Brawl catch us like this, they'll take us apart."

"Assuming they don't just step on us," Dead End chimed in. "Either way, we're doomed."

"I notice you're still running with the rest of us," Motormaster snarled pointedly.

Dead End scowled but didn't bother to reply. He could feel the fragile flesh on the soles of his feet searing and tearing with every stride, and that was more than distracting enough. They were approaching the nearest of the tall cliffs surrounding the clearing; the sheer rock face loomed up in front of them, at least three times larger than it had been when they entered, pockmarked with cracks and holes shrouded in shadow that had seemed like pinholes before but now yawned impossibly wide. They made their way for them instinctively, seeking cover.

* * *

Finding a shallow cave big enough to shelter the five of them but small enough that the now-much-larger Combaticons wouldn't bother to investigate it was surprisingly easy, and getting out of the blazing midday sun was an added bonus, but apart from that Dead End saw little about their situation to celebrate.

Motormaster turned away from the entrance where he'd been scanning the horizon for signs of pursuit to face the other members of his gestalt, crouched on the cave floor panting and dripping some strange, greasy fluid. "All right," he said, glaring murderously at each of them in turn. "What the frag happened?"

They exchanged nervous glances.

"It was Breakdown!" Drag Strip said.

"It was Drag Strip!" Breakdown said in the same moment.

"It was the Autobots!" Wildrider crowed over them both.

Motormaster's human face was flushed a muddy red from their sprint across the clearing, but it got even redder as he lunged at Wildrider, seizing him by the throat and hauling him clear off the ground. Wildrider made a choking sound as he was hoisted aloft, his hands scrabbling futilely at Motormaster's wrist, his dangling legs kicking helplessly.

Dead End noted idly just how _large_ their gestalt leader was compared to the rest of them even in their new, far more vulnerable forms. He towered over them, almost as wide as two of them standing side by side, his bulging arm bigger around than Wildrider's neck trapped in his savage grip.

That and the violence was at least familiar. Less familiar was the look on Wildrider's face as it swiftly darkened to purple, his eyes widening in panic as he clawed and kicked with increasing desperation.

Motormaster frowned, dropping him abruptly. "What?" he demanded.

Wildrider's only response was a truly revolting noise somewhere between a gag and a gasp. For a long moment his harsh, rasping breaths were the only sound in the small cave, echoing hollowly off the rock walls.

Motormaster stared at him for long moment before turning his glare on the others. "One of you did this," he growled. "Now start talking or I start punching."

"It was Breakdown's fault," Drag Strip replied immediately.

"It was _Drag Strip's_ fault," Breakdown retorted, glaring at him.

Motormaster backhanded them both and looked to him, ignoring their cries of protest. "Well?"

Dead End sighed. "_They_ got in a fight. _He_ activated Megatron's machine, and _he_ broke it," he replied, identifying each perpetrator in turn with a sullen jerk of his chin.

"And what were _you_ doing during all of this?"

He offlined his optics in disgust. He'd seen _that_ one coming a mile away. "Musing on the futility of my existence," he replied sarcastically.

Predictably, Motormaster backhanded him as well.

Afterward he turned back to the cave entrance to stare out over the dry desert landscape, his unfamiliar features shaping themselves into an uncharacteristic expression of deep thought. They left him to it, opting to remain silent and nurse their injuries.

Dead End stared at his feet – bizarre appendages by anyone's standards, more like grossly deformed hands than anything fit to walk on – noting with disdain the abundance of reddened scrapes and leaking cuts he'd acquired in their flight from the clearing. Human durability left a _lot_ to be desired.

He glanced up at the others, taking in their new, vastly altered forms. That one was Breakdown, huddled close to Drag Strip despite their recent dispute, and over there was Wildrider –

_Wait a minute_, he thought. _Why are they all darker than me?_

"Right," Motormaster said, breaking into his thoughts. "We'll stay here for now. It's probably only temporary. We'll just wait until it wears off."

"What if it doesn't?" Breakdown asked.

"Then we're doomed," Dead End replied.

* * *

He was hideous.

There was no use in denying it. The evidence was right there in front of him. Gone were his shoulder wheels and chestplate. His mask and visor were nothing but a memory. He was tiny and lumpy and squashy and there was nothing he could do about it.

It was probably a mercy that his lifespan was now pathetically short.

"My polish is gone," he remarked to no one in particular, breaking the prolonged silence.

"What?" Wildrider asked, lifting his head from where he'd been resting it against Dead End's shoulder – his squishy, wheel-less shoulder – and pushing himself into a more upright position. Over the course of their long silent vigil they'd all gravitated into a sort of huddle, although Dead End couldn't recall making a conscious decision to move closer to the others. Only Motormaster remained apart from them, standing alone at the entrance to the cave.

"I had a new can of polish in my subspace," he said. "It's gone."

"Who cares about polish?" Drag Strip said, sitting up to sneer at him. "Have you noticed we don't have any energon?"

"You do realize if we did and we drank it, we'd all die?" he replied darkly. He scowled, staring down at his ugly, fleshy hands. "Humans don't drink energon."

He was fairly certain they were all dying anyway. He hurt everywhere, not just the agony of the cuts and scrapes on his feet or the knot on his jaw where Motormaster had hit him; there was also a dull ache in his midsection – _where my transmission used to be_, he thought glumly – and a painful throbbing in his head like someone had been using it to pound out dents. His mouth was unpleasantly dry, and he felt as if his core temperature had dropped at least five degrees since they'd entered the cave.

"How long has it been?" Breakdown asked suddenly.

"We don't have internal chronometers," he replied morosely.

"Yes, but it's been a while, hasn't it?" Breakdown said, looking over at Motormaster. "It's been a while, and we're still human."

"Of course we are," Dead End said. "Megatron was planning to use that machine to make energon. What good would it do him if the effects _wore off_ after a few hours?"

Motormaster turned slowly to look at him. So did all the others.

"I told you we were doomed," he said.

Breakdown turned back to Motormaster. "So what do we do now?"

"We could use the machine to turn ourselves back," Drag Strip suggested. "Just wait until the Combaticons leave, and then sneak out and – and fix it, somehow. Change back to normal."

Motormaster frowned, turning back to stare out into the clearing again. He stood stiffly, his feet set slightly apart, his broad shoulders vibrating with tension, silhouetted by the watery orange light of the setting sun.

"Are they still out there?" Drag Strip demanded impatiently.

"Yeah," Motormaster replied tightly. "They're dismantling the machine."

"Oh," Drag Strip said in a small voice.

For a long time no one spoke. Outside, the Combaticons finished gathering the individual components that made up Megatron's matter-energy converter and departed, taking with them their last shred of hope.

A curious rumbling, gurgling sound punctuated the tense silence. Dead End, Wildrider and Breakdown all turned to look at Drag Strip, the apparent source of the noise.

"Quit revving your engine, Drag Strip," Motormaster ordered absently. "I'm trying to think."

"He doesn't have an engine," Dead End muttered.

"We need to contact Megatron," Motormaster said finally.

"We don't have comms," Dead End said.

"I _know_ we don't have comms!" Motormaster snapped, whirling around to glare at him. "And you should be grateful I don't have my slagging _rifle_ either. Breakdown, could you do it with a human computer?"

Breakdown sat up a little straighter as he was addressed, frowning thoughtfully. "I don't know," he said. "Maybe. But where are we going to get one?"

"We'll go to a human settlement," Motormaster replied. "One of their cities. They'll have one."

"We'll need clothes," Breakdown ventured hesitantly. "Humans always wear clothes. If we don't have any, they'll all stare at us."

"We need food, too," Wildrider chimed in. "Humans refuel by eating food."

"So we'll get some," Motormaster said.

"We don't have any money," Dead End pointed out. "They're not going to give us all that slag for nothing."

"Who said anything about giving it to us?" Motormaster growled, his hands clenching into fists. "We'll just _take_ it."

"And how exactly are we going to get there?" Dead End retorted. "We don't have alt modes."

Motormaster lunged at him with a speed that was downright startling, seizing him by the shoulders and hauling him to his feet, his human features contorting with ill-suppressed rage. "Shut up!" he shouted, his flushed face scant inches from Dead End's. "Stop telling us what we don't fragging _have_ and start thinking about how we're going to get _out_ of this!"

"We're not _going_ to get out of this!" he screamed back, his vocalizer cracking. "We are _slagged!_ We are ugly, squishy, _useless_ organics and we are ALL. GOING. TO _DIE!_"

Motormaster snarled, shoving him violently away. Dead End stumbled backward, barely managing to catch himself against the cave wall before he fell. He leaned heavily against it, venting hard. His skin felt hot and tight, his chest painfully compressed; he couldn't seem to get enough air. His dry throat ached.

A lengthy silence stretched out between them, filled with the oppressive weight of their stares and punctuated by his own labored breathing. After a moment Motormaster snorted derisively, turning his back on him and stalking back to the cave entrance to look outside again.

"I'd kinda like to have some more fun before I die," Wildrider said wistfully. "I always wanted to see Disneyland."

"I wanted to win the Formula One World Championship," Drag Strip volunteered, not wanting to be outdone.

Breakdown glanced between them, then turned his gaze back to Motormaster. "What are we gonna do?" he asked quietly.

"We'll walk," Motormaster replied with grim resolve. "The road's not far; we'll go there. We'll get a car, find a city. Anyone who's got a problem with that can make the trip on his hands and knees."

"Can we get a car each?" Drag Strip asked hopefully. "I want the fastest one."

Motormaster huffed in exasperation. "We'll get _one_ car and you can have the whole fragging trunk all to yourself, how's that?"

* * *

Venturing from the temporary shelter of the cave they had hidden in was strangely daunting. The sun had set, and the sky was darkening rapidly. When Dead End stepped out into the gathering gloom of the desert twilight, he immediately attempted to switch his vision to the infrared spectrum, only to be reminded that he no longer _had_ infrared, or optics for that matter. The realization made him want to fall to his knees and never move again.

But the others kept going, picking their way carefully over the uneven rocky ground, their progress punctuated by the occasional curse or grunt of pain as they attempted to navigate back across the clearing in the steadily growing darkness. He had no choice but to follow.

_I don't deserve this,_ he thought. _I don't slagging deserve this._

By the time he slammed his foot into an unseen rock for the third or fourth time, he'd stopped noticing the pain. Pain had become his entire existence, implacable, inescapable.

_I tried to stop them,_ he thought bitterly, veering slightly from his chosen course to avoid a dark, spiky clump of unidentifiable plant life. _No one ever listens to me_.

The others were walking slightly apart from him, just far enough that their quiet murmurs were beyond his audial range, their voices indistinct. Motormaster was even further afield, walking alone several strides ahead of them, his broad form barely discernible in the dark.

Dead End stumbled again, this time falling painfully to his knees, and for a moment he debated not bothering to rise. He placed a hand flat on the ground to brace himself, and blinked when he realized he'd put his palm directly in the center of a tire tread mark – _their_ tread marks – his eyes beset by an odd stinging sensation as he pushed himself upright.

The gnawing ache in his midsection had dulled, but the pounding in his head seemed to grow worse with every step he took, further compounding his misery. His gyros, or whatever it was humans had that passed for gyros, had begun to malfunction; he felt incredibly dizzy. Slow, agonizing death seemed inevitable.

He was so caught up in his litany of despair that he didn't realize the others had stopped until he bumped into Wildrider's back. He looked up to find them staring out over a broad expanse of inky asphalt – the highway they'd drove in on.

There wasn't a single car in sight.


	3. Playing in Traffic

_Authors' note: Chapter 3, and Drag Strip finally gets his turn behind the wheel... or lack thereof. Buckle up and brace yourselves anyway, because no one does it better or faster. _

_- anon_decepticon and QoS/mdperera_

_Thanks also to Kookaburra 1701 for her support & input, and much appreciation to our readers and reviewers!  
_

_

* * *

_

**Chapter 3 : Playing in Traffic**

In all his life, Drag Strip had never hated anything as much as his new, soft and useless human body.

At first it hadn't seemed quite real. Everything had happened so quickly that even his superior reflexes had been hard-pressed to keep up. In a matter of minutes, it had gone from the fight to the device searing him with a painless blast to their sudden relocation to a cave where yesterday his arm just might have fitted had he been in root mode. It was a little difficult to take in all at once.

And as the sky darkened, his sense of unreality only increased. Even the world was different without sensors and headlights – it was a large, dark and above all _alien_ place. Drag Strip would not have been greatly surprised if Megatron or Primus had appeared out of the darkness and said to him, "Excellent, Drag Strip, you have passed this bizarre and arbitrary test I set for you! Now you shall have your powerful and beautiful chassis back, with the following upgrades as a well-deserved reward—"

He was distracted enough by the fantasy that he tripped over an unseen rock and fell headlong.

That _hurt_, even though he had the fortitude not to bleat like an Autobot about it. Before that afternoon, Drag Strip had never given much thought to human bodies except to note with distaste that striking them left nasty reddish smears on his sleek plating and tires. Now he began to wonder how the species as a whole had ever managed to survive so long.

_You'd think they'd have _something_ to compensate for their lack of size, lack of weaponry, lack of speed, lack of fragging everything, _he thought. _But no._ Worst of all were the injuries he had taken – and seemed to be continuing to take with every step. The soles of his feet stung and throbbed, even though it was dark and the sand was no longer unbearably hot. Each fall scraped his hands and knees raw, and the side of his face ached where Motormaster had hit him, even though that had happened hours ago.

But at least he knew the causes of that damage. There were other problems that unsettled him far more because he had no idea what was wrong with him. His now-soft organic plating was covered with tiny bumps, and the internal components in his midsection rumbled occasionally, though the sound was nothing like the reassuring rev of the high-performance engine he had lost. Out of long habit he willed a damage report to appear in his vision, only to remember that he no longer had self-diagnostics or a HUD.

_Do humans even have self-repair systems?_

He decided to worry about that later and kept walking, following Motormaster's huge figure as best he could in the dark. Motormaster, he soon realized, strode in human mode much as he would have done in root mode – ignoring everything in his way and apparently indifferent to the thorny shrubs that raked Drag Strip's legs until they leaked. He hated the warm sticky fluid dribbling down his skin too.

The access road sloped up to the highway. Drag Strip remembered plunging easily down that slope, feeling the wind flow like water over his smooth aerodynamic frame, his tires eating miles of asphalt in seconds. But as he plodded up the rise, legs trembling, the memory felt like an old data cache or something that had happened to another mech. They stopped on the hard shoulder and Dead End walked straight into Wildrider.

That would have been funny under any other circumstances, but now it was all Drag Strip could do to breathe deeply, press his fingers to a new sharp pain in his side and look out over the expanse of the highway. Even in the weak watery glow of the single streetlight closest to them, he could see there wasn't a single car in sight.

"Now what?" he said.

He knew at once that he should not have drawn any attention to himself, but it was too late. There was a soft rasping sound as Motormaster turned on his heel.

"Now," he said, "you get out there on the road. When you see a car, step in front of it and make it stop. Then I'll get the jump on the driver."

Drag Strip's throat was so dry he could barely swallow, but it closed up entirely at Motormaster's words. He had to work his mouth a few times before he could reply.

"Uh…" he began. "What if the car doesn't stop in time?"

"Then you'll be run over," Dead End said, apparently condescending to end his sulk. "I've heard that can be an astonishingly painful experience."

"Can be?"

"If the impact doesn't kill you instantly."

Motormaster's chuckle was contemptuous. "And then I guess you won't have been the fastest after all."

Resentment and pride shot like fresh fuel through Drag Strip's limbs, stiffening his back strut. When headlights shone in the distance, he took a step forward but froze as the vehicle came closer and he recognized it.

It was a huge semi-trailer truck. Drag Strip felt his legs move of their own accord as he backpedaled. He would have thought twice about standing before that kind of vehicle in his former frame, let alone in a tiny and infinitely vulnerable human envelope. The semi rumbled past them on its multiple wheels.

Drag Strip glanced nervously at Motormaster to see if he was in trouble for not trying to stop the semi, but Motormaster didn't even look at him; all his attention was fixed on the semi. In the pale edge of the glow cast by its headlights, his face was expressionless except for the hunger in his eyes.

The semi was well past them when its horn blared, making Drag Strip flinch. Motormaster didn't move. He stood by the side of the road until the last red spark of the semi's taillights had disappeared into the night, and then he turned and shoved Drag Strip into the highway in one smooth motion.

Drag Strip stumbled and nearly fell, but caught himself. Any pleasure he might have felt at his usual reflexes still being in evidence faded when his teammates started calling out suggestions to him.

"Maybe you should hold your hands up when the next car sees you," Breakdown said.

Motormaster grunted in assent. "Yeah, try to look pathetic and defenseless. More so than usual."

"What about lying down?" Wildrider said. "Playing dead?"

Motormaster cuffed him on the back of the head. "Playing speed bump is more like it. If they don't see him in time they'll go right over him and then it'll be your turn as the bait."

Drag Strip could hardly believe his audials. That morning he had been a bolt of golden lightning, the terror of the roads and the pride of Megatron's army. And now he was practically roadkill.

The asphalt felt rough under the soles of his feet and his skin was leaking again from beneath the arms. He didn't even have any idea how long he stood there waiting, but it felt like a year before pinpoint lights appeared in the distance. They grew steadily larger as a car approached.

Drag Strip tried to let his shoulders slump as he raised his hands. They felt very empty. His gravito-gun was long gone, but at that moment he would have been happy with a large rock or two. His only consolation was that there were no flashing strobe lights in sight, so at least it wasn't a police car.

The headlights were bright and his eyes tried to close involuntarily as the car drew closer, but he forced them open and blinked his vision clear as he heard the car's brakes being applied. The familiar scent of hot rubber and gasoline fumes made something wrench in his chest as the car came to a halt only a few feet away from him. He still couldn't see much beyond the brilliant glow of the headlights.

But he heard a window being rolled down.

"Uh… hey, are you okay?" a man's hesitant voice called. "You want me to call 911 for—"

The words were cut off in a strangled squawk and a muffled scream. Drag Strip immediately scrambled sideways in case the car shot forward at him, and in the next moment he was outside the headlights' glare and could see what had happened. Motormaster had thrust a massive arm past the lowered window and seemed to be doing to the human driver what he had done to Wildrider in the cave, with much the same result. Then he shoved his other arm into the car as well and closed his fist around the human's wrist, tearing the man's hand away from the steering wheel.

The other door was thrown open. Another human leaped out and ran around the car, shoes clack-clacking on the asphalt. Drag Strip lunged for the still-open door and flung himself into the front seat, pulling his legs in quickly.

A sharp pain drove through his groin into his midsection and he gasped, doubling up. His thighs splayed apart as if from reflex and the sensation slowly faded to a sick throbbing, though he was still afraid to move. Fresh drops of liquid trickled down the sides of his face.

Motormaster was snarling something at the human in the driver's seat as the other one reached him, but Drag Strip had more pressing concerns at hand. He reached between his legs tentatively, expecting to feel nails or broken glass on the car seat, but all he registered were the strange external components that grew from his pelvic unit. They were even more unpleasantly lumpy and squashy than the rest of him, and produced a warning twinge or two as he handled them.

The other human produced a small aerosol can and sprayed it at Motormaster's head as if about to give him a polish. Drag Strip had an instant to wonder what that was about. Then Motormaster's bellow split the night, though he still didn't let go of the driver, who was now choking in earnest.

Drag Strip rested his forehead against the dashboard and tried to relax. He still felt slightly sore, but it was good to be sitting down with his feet off the sand and stones and asphalt. When he heard another car door click open he turned his head and saw the now-released driver scrambling out.

Mildly curious, Drag Strip shifted sideways in a crablike motion, trying not to remember how gracefully his robot form would have moved, like a living work of art. He was very careful to keep the kibble away from the gearshift, though, and in a moment he had lowered himself into the driver's seat. It felt warm. Even better was the sense of being in-control, behind the wheel.

He glanced around the interior of the car – _Honda Accord sedan, 4-speed automatic, could have a more optic-catching paintjob but it'll do _– before he looked with growing interest at the little scenario out on the road.

Breakdown and Wildrider were holding the second human, the one who had sprayed Motormaster. Each of them gripped an arm, but the human still struggled and shrieked. Drag Strip wasn't good at recognizing anything about humans based on their appearances, because they changed the color of their clothes so frequently and they all had such small indistinct features. Voices were a little easier to distinguish, though, so he felt sure that the one whom Breakdown and Wildrider held was a female. Dead End was trying to unbutton her blouse, but that only made her yell more loudly.

Coughing and clutching his throat, the driver staggered towards them. Motormaster was half-leaning against the car, one hand clamped to his face, but he swung the other out in a swat that sent the driver sprawling. For the first time since the whole horrible experience had begun, Drag Strip started to enjoy himself. It was quite nice sitting in the comfort of the car in the perfect position to watch everything.

"Leave him alone!" the female screamed. She kicked out at Dead End, who jumped back just in time. That drew Drag Strip's attention to her feet, and to the shoes she wore.

He sat up sharply, staring at the heels on the shoes. With those on, he would be as tall as Motormaster, maybe even taller! And it only made sense that the Stunticon who had once had the largest ankle-wheels should have the largest heels.

"Hurry up with the clothes!" Motormaster growled. The driver pulled himself up, holding on to the car for support.

"I want her shoes," Drag Strip called out. He braced his forearms on the steering wheel and rested his cheek on them. "Don't damage the heels."

The driver spoke between gasps for breath. "What kind of sick…" He stopped when Motormaster looked at him. "Look, we'll give you whatever you want. Just don't touch my wife. Please."

Motormaster snorted with contempt. "Weaklings," he said to the world in general before staring back at the driver. "Tell her to shut up and give us her clothes and I won't…" he punctuated that by bending the car's radio antenna down with one finger until the tip touched the hood. "…_touch_ her."

He released the antenna with a loud _twanggg. _Even the woman had stopped yelling by then.

"Her clothes?" The driver coughed. "You – you want clothes?"

"Yeah. Yours too. And money."

"And her shoes," Drag Strip reminded him.

"Shut up about the slagging shoes already!"

"We have a s-suitcase in the trunk." The driver reached into a pocket and took out a wallet. "There's clothes in it, lots of clothes, enough for all of you. Just take those." He handed over his wallet at arm's length, nearly dropping it before Motormaster grabbed it with his free hand.

Drag Strip popped the lever that opened the trunk and Dead End fished out the suitcase, lugging it into the back seat before he got in as well and opened it. He looked down at the piles of folded clothes with no discernible change in expression, picking an occasional item up between thumb and forefinger.

"Well?" Motormaster looked up from his inspection of the wallet.

"Yes, this contains the accoutrements of human civilization."

Motormaster threw the wallet into the car, narrowly missing Dead End's head. "All right. Get in, you lot." He pulled open the door on the driver's side.

Drag Strip scrambled back to the other front seat and Motormaster took his place behind the wheel. One of his eyes was reddened and leaking, probably where the woman's aerosol spray had caught him. Drag Strip was impressed. He made a mental note to find out what the aerosol can had contained, and to get one of those for himself as well.

Wildrider and Breakdown released the woman and climbed into the back seat with her shoes just as Motormaster turned the key in the ignition. Doors slammed as the Accord's engine grumbled into life. Drag Strip settled down in his seat, feeling better at once.

Naturally, Motormaster had to ruin that. "And what the frag did you think _you_ were doing?" He slammed one bare heel down on the accelerator and the car took off in a shriek of rubber on asphalt. "Sitting pretty in here while the rest of us were trying to get clothes?"

"I did my part!" Drag Strip was beginning to rethink his decision to ride shotgun, mostly because it placed him closest to Motormaster's fists. "I was the bait, remember? _And_ I got injured doing that."

Motormaster reached up and switched on the internal light on the car's roof. Still driving at what – for them – was a sedate hundred and twenty miles an hour, he looked Drag Strip over and snorted in disdain.

"Quit whining," he said. "You aren't leaking anywhere new."

"I'm not whining! I did get hurt."

Motormaster's eyes narrowed to violet slivers. "Yeah? Where?"

Drag Strip patted his pelvic unit very lightly with the palm of one hand.

"What, there?" Motormaster said and poked the kibble.

Drag Strip doubled over again.


	4. Asleep at the Wheel

_Authors' note: Chapter 4! Motormaster's in the driver's seat now, and there's nothing you can do about it. Suck it up, weaklings!_

– _anon_decepticon and QoS/mdperera_

_Thanks also to Kookaburra 1701 for her support and input!_

* * *

**Chapter 4 : Asleep at the Wheel**

Motormaster grunted with satisfaction as he reached up to switch off the dome light and reclaimed his grip on the steering wheel. The look of nauseated agony on Drag Strip's face was highly entertaining, but the lighted interior of the car made it difficult to see the road.

"Breakdown," he heard Dead End ask behind him, "What are these bits of plastic?"

"I don't know," Breakdown replied after a brief pause. "What's _Visa_ mean?"

"Something to do with travel, I think," Dead End said. "This one says _American Express_ – some kind of train, perhaps?"

"You mean like Astrotrain?" Wildrider asked.

"A _human_ train," Dead End replied disdainfully "These must be access passes to human transportation. That could be useful."

"Why?" Wildrider said. "We already have a car!"

_This is only temporary,_ Motormaster thought. It had seemed bad at first, but now things were looking up. They had a car, clothes, and money. Soon they'd have a computer too, and then they could contact Megatron and get their bodies back. Everything was going according to plan.

That was something of a miracle, considering his team was a pack of irredeemable glitches. He might have guessed they'd find some way to screw up the mission Megatron had assigned them, but this time they'd truly outdone themselves.

A low growl rose from his vocalizer at the thought, and for a moment he considered pulling the car over and doling out a proper punishment.

_Humans_. They were slagging _humans_.

The car swerved slightly as his grip on the steering wheel tightened. At first he'd been convinced that it was all some kind of Autobot trick. A hologram, an illusion, _something_ that had caused his optics to deceive him. But then he'd tried to draw his sword from subspace to deal with the slagger who'd dared to try and mess with them, and it hadn't come.

There'd been a moment of absolute denial, of total refusal to accept what was happening. And then the ground had begun to shake.

"I want my shoes," Drag Strip said in a strained voice, still doubled over in his seat. Motormaster smirked when a second later the human female's shoes came flying through the space between the front seats and landed with a clunk on the dashboard in front of Drag Strip.

Drag Strip seemed far less amused. Ignoring the other Stunticons' laughter, he straightened up and reached out to grab the coveted footwear, muttering resentfully as he gathered them close to his naked chestplate.

Motormaster chuckled darkly. Things were definitely looking up.

"Human clothes are weird." Breakdown's voice drifted up from the backseat.

"Seems simple enough to me," Dead End replied. "Ones like this go on the bottom, and this kind goes on top."

"I want that one," Wildrider said. "I like hard rock."

"Oooh, this one's soft," Breakdown said. "Feels like a polishing cloth."

"Give it here," Dead End said.

Drag Strip turned around in his seat, rising up onto his knees to peer into the back. "Are there any yellow ones? I want the yellow ones."

A scrap of white cloth with bright yellow blotches on it fluttered into the front seat, and Drag Strip seized it triumphantly, turning forward again to shove his arms into the flopping, ruffled sleeves.

"Ah," Dead End said, sounding uncharacteristically pleased. "Humans have visors, too."

Drag Strip was up on his knees again immediately, reaching into the backseat. "Give it to me, I want it."

"Get your own," Dead End replied smugly. "This one is mine."

Drag Strip opened his mouth to protest, but Motormaster cut him off before he could speak. "Sit down and shut up, Drag Strip. That goes for the rest of you as well."

They all knew better than to argue when Motormaster used _that_ tone. Drag Strip turned around, crossing his arms over his chestplate and slouching down in his seat with a resentful huff. The others fell into a cowed silence, the human clothing momentarily forgotten in the face of Motormaster's ire.

Motormaster smirked at their reaction, seizing the opportunity to pass a slow-moving station wagon that was plodding along sluggishly ahead of them. Its headlights dwindled rapidly in the rearview mirror, and they soon had the road to themselves once more.

A flicker of movement off to his right caught his attention. He glanced over, noting with relief that the vision out of his right optic was no longer blurred, and discovered Drag Strip poking around in the compartment below the dashboard. When he glanced back again a moment later, Drag Strip was gulping some kind of liquid out of a clear plastic container.

He reached across the gap, his hand closing around Drag Strip's wrist like a vise. Drag Strip jerked in surprise, coughing and spluttering, a flicker of fear flashing through his optics as he met Motormaster's narrowed gaze.

"What is that?" he demanded.

"It's _water_," Drag Strip replied, eyeing him warily. "You know, like we put in our radiators."

Motormaster deliberated for all of a moment, then jerked his chin toward the backseat and released Drag Strip's wrist, returning his hand to the wheel and his optics to the road. Hunching his shoulders defensively, Drag Strip passed the container through the gap to Breakdown and the others.

After a few minutes Motormaster raised his left hand, and the container – now nearly empty – was slipped into it. He checked his mirrors and pulled over, deftly maneuvering the car onto the shoulder with one hand while he raised the container to his mouth with the other and drained it.

The liquid was warm like energon, but thin and tasteless. Nevertheless it felt good on his parched throat. Setting the handbrake, he opened the car door and tossed out the empty container. "Let's see what we've got," he said, heaving himself out of the driver's seat.

A series of rapid clunks announced the opening of the other doors as the rest of the Stunticons piled out of the car. They gathered around him as he took the suitcase from Dead End and moved around to the back, laying it out on the trunk and thumbing open the latches.

He turned to face them then, looking them over appraisingly. Dead End's optics were now hidden behind a pair of dark lenses – a poor substitute for his usual visor – and his lower half was clad in a loose-fitting garment patterned with a series of criss-crossing lines. Instead of a Decepticon insignia, Wildrider now had the words _Hard Rock Café_ emblazoned across his chestplate.

Scowling, Motormaster returned his attention to the suitcase. From Megatron's elite warriors to _this_. He rifled through the contents, inspecting each item briefly and rejecting any that were clearly too small to fit him, passing them on to the others to complete their disguises.

Regrettably, that accounted for most of the contents of the suitcase; he was unquestionably too large for the majority of them. He finally settled on a front-fastening upper garment that fit (albeit snugly) over his broad shoulders and a loose, flowing lower garment that stretched at the waist. It tangled around his legs when he moved, but he didn't think it would impede his ability to walk or drive.

He turned back to the others after he'd pulled them on, noting with satisfaction that they all appeared sufficiently covered, and gave a curt nod of approval. Turning back to the suitcase, he raised an arm to close the lid. The action was met with a soft tearing sound as the thin cloth stretched across his upper arm split open from shoulder to elbow. Behind him, someone stifled a snicker.

Motormaster turned to face them with slow deliberation, pinning them all with a baleful glare. Once he was certain he had their attention, he reached up and ripped away what remained of the garment's arms, leaving his own bare from shoulder to wrist.

"All right," he said into the sudden silence. "Let's get moving."

* * *

They made good time on the largely-deserted highway, and Motormaster thought things were progressing fairly well. Soon they'd be back where they belonged.

Shortly after they got back on the road, Breakdown informed them that he'd discovered a box in the back seat. Before Motormaster could ask what was inside – a weapon, he hoped – Wildrider asked, "Is that cake? Lemme try it."

"What are you doing?" he said sharply, unable to turn around completely and not wanting to show that he had no idea what "cake" was.

Drag Strip twisted around to look. "I want some too," he said. Motormaster was fairly sure Drag Strip didn't know what cake was either, but of course he'd want to do whatever the others were doing. When Drag Strip turned back around, he was holding a chunk of some pale crumbly substance covered with a thick white paste that gave off a faint sweet odor.

_What in Megatron's name _is_ that?_

"Hey, there's writing on it." Breakdown sounded intrigued.

"What does it say?" Dead End asked. "Hazardous? Toxic? Explosive?"

"From…this…day forth. Wildrider ate the rest."

They were going to _eat_ that? Motormaster grimaced in disgust. Even if that was what humans did to refuel, the thought of swallowing something solid made him want to purge his tanks. Drag Strip seemed to have no such compunctions, however; he eagerly raised his piece of cake to his mouth.

"Hey," Wildrider said suddenly. "I saw a Disney film once where this human ate a piece of cake and it shrank her down to about _this_ big."

Drag Strip froze, his mouth open, the cake halfway inside. "That was fragging Disney, not a documentary," he said after a moment, and popped the piece into his mouth.

Dead End offered Motormaster the remains, but he shook his head. He didn't want human food, especially not human food he had to bite and chew. In any case, it was better to keep his attention on the road.

Afterward an argument broke out when Drag Strip made another attempt to persuade Dead End to surrender the human visor he'd found, but Motormaster put a stop to that by cuffing him across the back of the helm and telling him to shut up. Now Drag Strip was staring sullenly out the window with his arms folded, and the others had lapsed into blissful silence.

But of course that couldn't last. "It's too quiet," Wildrider complained. "Turn on the radio, Drag Strip."

"Do it yourself," Drag Strip shot back irritably.

Motormaster ground his denta and reached for the knob on the dashboard, promptly flooding the car with human noise. He manipulated the dial until he found something only mildly intolerable, and tried to ignore the persistent throbbing in his head.

That bought him a measure of peace, if not quiet, and after a time even the noise from the radio seemed to fade into the background, granting Motormaster the opportunity to reassess their situation.

By now they'd likely been declared dead, or else deserters. The fact that their tire tracks could be seen entering the clearing but not leaving it would help to discourage the latter, which meant there was a good chance they'd be forgiven for damaging Megatron's machine…provided they managed to contact him and explain themselves in time.

He'd take full responsibility for his team; tell Megatron he'd administered a suitable punishment. He hadn't, not by a long shot, but then again, it could be argued that being turned into _humans_ was punishment enough.

Time was their most precious commodity now. The longer Megatron was made to wait, the less likely he would be to overlook the trouble they had caused him. Keep him waiting too long, and he might not forgive them at all.

His vision was beginning to waver; his optics kept trying to offline of their own accord. He shook his helm stubbornly, determined not to give in to yet another of this human body's damnable weaknesses. Their only hope of getting their _real_ bodies back depended on it. He just had to...

He was jolted online by an unexpected bouncing and the raised voices of his team calling out in alarm. Motormaster swore as he onlined his optics, wrenching the steering wheel rapidly to the right and then to the left as it attempted to tear itself free of his hands. He couldn't see the road – all that he could make out in the narrow cone of the Accord's headlights were rocks and dry scrub not unlike the harsh landscape they'd been forced to navigate when they left the cave.

He slammed on the brakes, and the car jerked to a ragged halt, but not before something struck the undercarriage with a disheartening _clunk_ that shook the entire vehicle from hubcaps to headlights.

"What happened?" someone said as Motormaster shook his helm dazedly, refreshing his optics. "Why'd we leave the road?"

He didn't bother to reply. Instead he threw open his door and surged out of the car, putting a safe distance between himself and his team before he surrendered to the urge to answer their questions with his fists.

His fuel tank churned with anger and disgust. He'd fallen into recharge – into _recharge!_ – behind the wheel, nearly costing them their only hope of escaping this wretched situation intact!

He wanted to break something. He wanted to _crush_ and _hurt_ and _destroy_. But even that pleasure was denied him – his magnificent sword was gone, his once-powerful fists reduced to pathetic hunks of meat dangling uselessly at the ends of squishy human arms. He roared with frustration, his wordless bellow echoing back among the stones as if to mock him.

Turning on his heel, he stalked back to the car, his hands clenched tightly into fists.

He managed to keep his temper in check – barely – when Dead End grimly informed him that the Accord had a broken front axle. When he speculated that they'd probably cracked the engine block as well, Motormaster threw him against the car hard enough to dent the door panel, then told the others to gather up everything they could carry.

They walked back to the road again in silence.

* * *

Motormaster intended to get a second car by the same method they'd used to acquire the first, but when they returned to the highway they encountered a sign that read _Gas/Food/Lodging 500 yards_, indicating they were closer to human civilization that he'd thought. Given their recent…mishap and the fact that liberating another car would require them to put more distance between themselves and its former owner, he concluded it would be best for them to walk.

The others complained bitterly about that, especially Drag Strip, who'd discovered during their trek back to the highway that the human shoes he'd coveted so dearly were extremely ill-suited for walking, but a single black look from Motormaster silenced their protests.

They still had money and clothes, he reminded himself. This was only a minor setback.

When they finally stepped onto the brightly lit grounds of the human service area, Motormaster paused and took a moment to assess the condition of his team.

They looked _bad_, like forty miles of rough road. Breakdown was swaying on his feet. Dead End had set down the suitcase and was now sitting on it, his head bowed in exhaustion. Drag Strip was walking with a noticeable limp as he struggled to bring up the rear, and Wildrider –

Motormaster frowned, his brow furrowing. Where the frag was Wildrider?

He spied him out of the corner of his optic, disappearing through a door with a stylized symbol of a human figure on it. He turned back to the others. "Dead End," he said. "Give me the human's wallet."

Dead End handed it over, and Motormaster opened it, thumbing through the contents and pulling out a single leaf of the green paper the humans used as currency, one with a number twenty printed on it. "Get food," he commanded, jerking his head toward the brightly lit gas station. "_Just_ food. I'll get Wildrider and meet you back outside."

Dead End nodded listlessly, accepting the twenty without argument. He got to his feet, winced and clutched at his side, then moved off toward the gas station with the others in tow, still lugging the battered suitcase.

_This is just temporary rationing,_ Motormaster told himself as he watched them go. They needed to conserve what money they had to ensure they had enough left over to purchase a computer. _Once we have our bodies back, they can have all the energon they want_.

Shaking his helm, he went to check on Wildrider. Knowing him, he was bound to be in trouble.

* * *

Wildrider looked up eagerly as he entered, his optics lighting with recognition. "Check it out, boss!" he said. "I found a mirror!"

Motormaster looked. The room he'd entered was cramped and foul-smelling, lit by harsh fluorescent lights that were less than forgiving to the cracked tile walls and dingy white fixtures. It did, however, boast a bank of grimy mirrors along the wall opposite the door, and it was these that had caught Wildrider's attention.

He stepped closer, ignoring the washbasins below, fascinated by his own reflection in spite of himself. The face that stared back at him was disgustingly _human_, with brownish skin and revolting mop of thick, wavy hair, but his optics…

They were _purple_. The exact shade of purple as the Decepticon insignia, the same color his old optics had been. His intakes hitched at the sight of them, an unexpected surge of hope welling up in his chassis.

Maybe there was something of their true selves left in these worthless human shells after all?

His mind raced, entranced by the possibilities. What else might they have retained? What of their former abilities might remain at their command?

The thought was so compelling he failed to notice he and Wildrider were no longer alone in the room until an unfamiliar voice snarled, "You got a problem, punk?"

Motormaster turned to discover a human male standing alongside the odd receptacles lining the wall to his right, evidently addressing Wildrider, who was staring at the human with an expression of avid curiosity.

The human performed some small action somewhere in the vicinity of his groin and then turned to face Wildrider, grabbing him by the front of his human garment and shoving him up against the wall, his posture stiff and hostile. "I don't like fags staring at me."

Motormaster huffed in exasperation and crossed the room to intercede, tapping the human on the shoulder with significantly more force than was necessary to gain his attention. Wildrider's grin widened as he spotted him over the human's shoulder, his optics lighting with manic glee.

The human's shoulders hunched defensively as Motormaster's shadow fell over him. Dropping Wildrider, he turned around and looked up…and _up_.

"That _punk_ belongs to me," Motormaster informed him coldly. "Take a walk."

The human's gaze swept over him, taking in Motormaster's massive frame. "Take it easy, man," he stammered, holding up his hands in a gesture of submission. "He's all yours."

Motormaster jerked his chin toward the door, and the human took the hint, slinking past him to the exit. "Let's go," he told Wildrider, turning to leave.

"Wait, I wanna try something," Wildrider said. "I think I figured out what this plug thing is for."

Motormaster exhaled impatiently. "Fine," he said. "Hurry up."

"This is so cool!" Wildrider said a moment later. "And I feel so much better – it's like flushing your radiator on a hot day!"

Motormaster turned back to stare at him incredulously, arching a skeptical eyebrow.

"You gotta try this, boss," Wildrider said.

Reluctantly, he tried it. His human clothing got in the way, and it was probably the most disgusting thing he'd ever done in his life, but Motormaster had to admit that he felt better afterward; the uncomfortable feeling of pressure that had been building up in his abdomen eased. Wildrider watched him the whole time he did it, fascinated.

As he readjusted his clothing and turned to leave, another human came into the room, making a beeline for the metal stalls lining the opposite wall. Wildrider's face lit up with interest.

"_No_," Motormaster said firmly, grabbing him by the back of the neck and steering him out of the room.

_Primus, what had he done to deserve this?_


	5. Driven to Distraction

_Author's note : Wildrider goes last, because after you've driven with him you may never get into a car again. Also, Internet cookies for anyone who can tell which movie they watch in this chapter!_

– _anon_decepticon and QoS/mdperera_

_Thanks also to Kookaburra 1701 for her support and input!_

_The reference to Atlantis was inspired by anon_decepticon's fic "After Atlantis" and the mention of jumper cables is from her fic "Jumpstart" (a great one-shot starring Wildrider and Drag Strip) - QoS  
_

_

* * *

_**Chapter 5 : Driven to Distraction**

Wildrider had been ordered to fetch canned liquid from the dispenser at the end of the passage, so after he discovered for himself that he couldn't pound or kick the cans out of the machine, he had no option but to feed money into it. Motormaster had given him just enough for that.

He grinned as the cans dropped one by one, thinking of Motormaster and the sandwiches Dead End had bought for them. The rest of them had started eating in the parking lot outside the gas station, while Motormaster had just held his sandwich between thumb and forefinger. But the smell of the food, the sounds of chewing or just the demands of his now-human body must have been too much for him, because he eventually took a cautious bite.

After that the rest of the sandwich disappeared down his intake at speed, though he looked even more disgusted at his own action and Wildrider decided not to say, "Didja like it, boss?" or "Next time try the chicken salad."

The pause for refueling seemed to make Dead End, Breakdown and Drag Strip look a little less likely to fall over in stasis lock, and they headed for the nearby motel. Motormaster sent Dead End to pay for accommodations for the night and to check into transportation to the nearest city, where Wildrider supposed they would find a computer, contact the base and become cybernetic again somehow.

Until then, though, he planned to enjoy himself as much as possible in human form. So he paid for six cans, and shook the last one as hard as he could for a few minutes. Then he replaced it in the little compartment at the base of the machine, scooped up their drinks and hurried back to their room, giggling to himself at the thought of a human opening the free can.

It was nothing compared to the destruction he normally managed to cause, but there was only so much he could do in his current condition. _I'll get better at finding ways around this_, he thought with his usual optimism as he banged a heel against their room door. It shuddered in its frame and Motormaster opened it a moment later, scowling.

Wildrider gave him a cheery grin and sauntered in, though he had to leap to avoid the slamming door. Motormaster plucked a can from his arms, leaned against the closed door and yanked the tab off. For a moment Wildrider was genuinely sorry that he hadn't shaken that particular can up.

He dropped the rest of the cans on the single berth. There had been two originally, but the others had pushed them together while he was gone and were now sprawled all over them. Wildrider was relieved; the prospect of sleeping alone rarely appealed to him in his real form, much less in this human shell.

Breakdown helped himself to a Coke, but Drag Strip grimaced. "I don't feel good," he said, rolling to a sitting position and drawing his legs up. "Why don't humans have any fragging self-diagnostics?"

"What's wrong?" Breakdown said.

Drag Strip laid a hand on his lower abdomen. "Feels like pressure's building up here." His optic ridges were still twisted in a frown.

Wildrider giggled again. "Oh, you need to flush your radiator! I saw a human doing that in the restroom back at the gas station so I tried it too."

Everyone turned to look at him. "How?" Drag Strip said. 'I can't see any caps to unscrew."

That was true – nothing on their human bodies was labeled, much less given fill lines. But Wildrider was always delighted when he discovered something new; it was such a change to have the team looking to him for information rather than brushing him aside because he was the crazy one who sometimes heard voices.

"It's that funny-looking plug thingy," he explained, pointing to show what he meant.

Drag Strip looked down at his lap. "What, the siphon?"

"It's not a siphon," Wildrider said, "because it doesn't suck anything _up_. I checked. It just expels fluid. Go on, try it!"

"Not in the sink or the washrack; we need those to bathe." Dead End gestured at the washracks with a thumb. "Use that other thing."

Drag Strip immediately jumped off the bed and headed towards the 'racks, so Wildrider ambled after him to help, only to have another door slammed in his face. "Stay out while I'm doing this!" Drag Strip's voice was a little muffled, but the annoyance came through loud and clear. "I've already been injured there twice today!"

_Sheesh. Human bodies are so wimpy. _Wildrider sat down and turned on the television, flipping through channels to see if he could find a film about cars they hadn't seen yet. Naturally, Drag Strip picked that moment to open the door.

"I'm going to wash now," he said to the room in general. "Who wants to scrub my back?"

Breakdown reached for the remote control as Motormaster dropped into the room's single chair, which creaked beneath his weight. He propped his large feet up on the table and drained what looked like half his can of soda. Wildrider leaned back, crossing his ankles comfortably and Dead End, even with his new visor pushed up on his head, looked as catatonic in human form as he usually did in root mode.

In his peripheral vision Wildrider saw Drag Strip blink uncertainly, as though he wasn't sure whether he had just spoken or not. "C'mon," he said, looking from one to another of his teammates. "I'll do yours!"

Wildrider stared ahead at the television screen and tried his best not to laugh, though Motormaster smirked at Drag Strip's increasingly infuriated expression. _Wait for it_, he thought and got up just as Drag Strip opened his mouth to deliver some irate comment. "Sure, Dragster, I'll come," he said cheerfully and strolled to the 'racks.

Drag Strip glowered at him but disappeared around the edge of the door while Breakdown shifted a little closer to Dead End. "You'll help me, right?" Wildrider heard him whisper, and Dead End nodded.

Wildrider grinned as he peeled off his clothes. It didn't matter how much their appearances had changed, he would always be able to recognize the shy, diffident sound of Breakdown's voice and the light that flickered in the depths of Dead End's eyes.

Drag Strip had already stripped and stepped beneath the wall-mounted nozzle. "We don't have any cleanser," he said. "Or even a brush."

"We've got this." Wildrider reached for a small oblong that had been on the side of the sink. When they had first checked out the 'racks he had taken it for food of some kind, because it had a paper wrapping and smelled vaguely nice, but Breakdown had told him it was soap – right after he had bitten into it.

"Everything is so fragging tiny," Drag Strip grumbled. "Oh well, at least we're using it first. C'mon in." He turned a lever and water sprayed down, plastering his fair hair to his scalp.

Wildrider gasped with shock. The water was so cold that everything in his body seemed to cringe away from it. Suddenly he understood why these washracks were so enclosed – first with a low wall surrounding the actual area and then the lockable door. If baths were always such miserable experiences, no wonder humans had to be penned in for them. The near-freezing temperature wouldn't have bothered him as a robot, but as a human it turned his skin pebbly with little bumps and made his teeth chatter.

He felt a tightening in his pelvic unit and looked down.

"H-h-hurry up," Drag Strip said, hands scrubbing hard at his upper arms in what looked more like an attempt to stay warm by generating friction than to clean himself.

Wildrider was too preoccupied with his latest discovery, though. "Drag Strip, look!" he said excitedly. "It's retractable!"

Drag Strip turned, shivering, and glanced down as well. His skin, Wildrider noticed, was a little paler now. "Thank Primus, at least it's less likely to get damaged that way. Now hurry the frag up and do my back!"

"Okay, okay." Wildrider pushed at his shoulder to turn him around again. "Slag!"

"What?" Resting both hands against the wall, Drag Strip tried to look back over his shoulder.

"Your back is so… smooth." Wildrider ran a hand over the place where Drag Strip's spoiler and rear diffuser had been. "And is that a transformation seam in your aft?' He poked at it curiously.

Drag Strip jerked. "Do that again and I'll flatten your faceplate! You want to jab someone's aft, go for Motormaster's!"

"Crazy, not stupid," Wildrider reminded him, then got down to business. It still felt weird to be touching something so smooth and soft and _organic, _something without sidepods or even racing stripes, though Drag Strip soon told him to stop with the running commentary on the weirdness. By the time he had finished soaping and scrubbing, Drag Strip's lips were tinged blue, although Wildrider felt sure he would be pleased by their return to their original color scheme.

"Okay, my turn!" he said. His jaw components were vibrating of their own accord and his fingers trembling so much that he nearly dropped the soap. Drag Strip grabbed it and shoved him unceremoniously under the nozzle. Wildrider shivered even harder, but was soon distracted by the lever and controls in the wall.

"Hey, what does this do if you turn it?" he said, and did so. The water temperature immediately became a little more tolerable and within moments it was warm. Wildrider relaxed under the soothing flow.

"Ahh," he sighed, closing his eyes in bliss and ignoring the ominous silence behind him. "This feels _so_ good! Hey, sunshine, you should have-"

Drag Strip flung the soap at his head.

* * *

After Drag Strip, still in a snippy mood, had left the 'racks, Wildrider sauntered out at a more leisurely pace, blotting his hair with a towel. Dead End muttered something about it being about time and went in with Breakdown in tow. Motormaster held a half-crushed can in one hand as he looked off into the distance, and Wildrider plopped down on the bed beside Drag Strip as stirring music resounded from the television.

"Whatcha watching?" he said. "Does it have cars in it?"

"I'd rather not see anything with cars at the moment," Drag Strip said tightly. He rolled over and rested his chin on his forearms, staring at the screen.

_Great_, Wildrider thought in disappointment, though he supposed that it wouldn't be such a bad idea to watch a film about humans. If they were going to be in that condition for much longer, some tips on how to blend in with the planet's native population might be useful. He could cause even more trouble if he didn't stand out too much.

So he finished the last of his drink as the opening titles appeared. "What's gone?" he said to Drag Strip.

"Huh?"

"What did the wind take away?"

"How the frag should I know? It just started!"

Wildrider huffed, perched his empty soda can on top of Drag Strip's head and continued watching. Most of the film was confusing, but he liked the sound of the war that was about to start. The North and the South sounded a lot like the Autobots and Decepticons.

By then Dead End and Breakdown had finished. Motormaster went to the 'racks while Breakdown joined them on Drag Strip's other side, though Dead End told them he had read the book on which the film was based and it ended about as miserably as possible for everyone.

"Well, don't spoil it for the rest of us!" Drag Strip snapped without looking up.

Motormaster stalked out of the 'racks a little while later, dragging a towel over his arms so hard that it looked as though he was trying to remove skin as well as water. He tossed the towel over the back of his chair.

"All right, enough wasting time." He kicked the chair so that it faced them and sat down. "I want to see how much we've still got of our real forms."

"Um, nothing?" Wildrider said, then flinched back at the glare Motormaster turned on him. "I mean… we're human now, boss." He didn't even have his favorite personalized license plates with a funny spelling of "Wildrider" on them.

"I know we're human!" A fuel line began to throb in Motormaster's forehead, and Wildrider watched it in fascination. 'The next idiot to tell me the fragging obvious will be made one with the wall in short order! But we still have a few things in common with our true forms."

Wildrider exchanged a look with his teammates but decided to keep quiet. So Dead End gave them all a resigned glance and said, "Such as?"

"Such as," Motormaster said, emphasizing each word, "my optics. They're the same color."

"Well, whoop de doo," Drag Strip whispered. Wildrider nearly laughed, but managed to turn that into a cough just in time.

"So let's try the rest of you. Dead End, combat radar?"

Dead End shook his head.

The fuel line grew a little more prominent. "Breakdown, try to sabotage something."

Breakdown looked bewildered. "Like what?"

"Like that stupid television set!" Motormaster looked about ready to put his foot through it.

"But how am I going to do that without an engine?"

Motormaster rose from his chair, making them all shift backwards over the bed. "Humans have… internal components similar to engines. Try revving those."

"But if that works it'll break the television!" Wildrider pointed out. "And the movie's just getting good."

Breakdown nodded. "The Yankees are about to invade Atlantis."

"Atlanta," Dead End said, lowering his face into his hand.

Motormaster's eyes narrowed to slivers and his voice was suddenly very quiet. "_I said _try_ it._"

The Stunticons tended to shrink from that tone even when neither weapons nor fists were in evidence. Breakdown sat up on the bed and looked down at his bare chest as if waiting for an engine to spontaneously turn over inside. Nothing happened except for the movements of his ventilations.

Wildrider wondered if turning the two little knobs on Breakdown's chest would help at all. Maybe one was positive and the other negative and hooking jumper cables up to them would work. But before he could suggest that, Breakdown's vocalizer made an odd guttural noise, then repeated the sound.

"Breakdown," Dead End said, "that's clearing your throat, not revving your… whatever humans have instead of engines."

"Everyone's looking at me," Breakdown said miserably.

Motormaster clenched a fist and dug the knuckles hard into his forehead. "Everyone, look at the slagging ceiling."

There was another long-drawn-out pause.

"Vroom?" Breakdown said finally, with a look on his face that told them he didn't know what else to say.

_This is it_, Wildrider thought, _we're all slagged_. But Motormaster only stared at Breakdown, his ventilations harshly audible, before he spun on his heel. He wrenched the door open, then stopped, turned around and grabbed the towel he had just discarded. Wrapping it around his frame, he strode out. The door slammed shut behind him so hard that it rattled.

The rest of the Stunticons all looked at Dead End. "What do we do now?" Breakdown asked and got a shrug in reply. So they finished the movie, which ended just as Dead End had prophesied and he actually looked somewhat gratified by their expressions of displeasure. Motormaster came back in as the next film was beginning and stamped on the television's plug, tearing it free from the wall.

"Get some recharge." He went to the external chronometer the motel had provided and twisted a dial. "The bus leaves at eight tomorrow." Pulling the towel off, he got into bed. His massive frame took up most of one mattress.

Wildrider didn't quite know how he was going to sleep in the silence, and he was disappointed that he hadn't had a chance to build a fort with the pillows. But he was also sure that if he mentioned either problem to Motormaster he would spend the night in stasis lock. So he and Drag Strip engaged in a brief tussle to decide who would end up _not_ sleeping beside Motormaster, a fight Wildrider lost when Motormaster hauled them apart and pushed them down before turning his back to them.

Drag Strip smirked, but to Wildrider's surprise it wasn't as bad as he'd expected. Motormaster's back now lacked a row of tires so it was a lot smoother to lean against, and his body heat seemed to soak through Wildrider like an oil bath. Dead End turned the light off and settled down on the other side of the bed beside Breakdown, while Drag Strip curled up with his back pressed against Wildrider's chest. He reached over and drew Wildrider's arm around his waist.

Wildrider still couldn't sleep. With the lights off he couldn't see how much Drag Strip's frame had changed, but he could feel how different it was. He shut his eyes and told himself it was still Drag Strip, just as it was still Motormaster on his other side.

But Drag Strip smelled strange as well. Wildrider remembered the sharp scent of Pinnacle Bodywork Shampoo and the sweet resiny polish that Drag Strip liked, but now he smelled human skin and soap and a slight hint of sweat. It was all so unfamiliar.

_Just ignore it,_ he thought, _or you'll never get any recharge tonight_. He pressed nearer and Drag Strip's hair tickled his nose.

But the warmth and closeness still felt good, even if they were generated by organic bodies instead of cybernetic ones. And although the low idle of engines was gone, Wildrider felt something else – a rhythmic thud that seemed to vibrate gently from within Drag Strip's back where it pressed against his chest. It was soundless but oddly soothing, and it was the last thing he felt before he slept.


	6. Highway Robbery

_Authors' note: Chapter 6! Breakdown's back, and he'd really appreciate it if you'd stop staring at him._

– _anon_decepticon and QoS/mdperera_

_Thanks also to Kookaburra 1701 for her support and input!_

_

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**Chapter 6 : Highway Robbery**

Breakdown peered nervously around the corner, his optics scanning the street they'd chosen.

It was deserted, empty save for a scrap of newspaper blowing down the sidewalk. As he watched, a human couple exited a building roughly a block away, crossed the street and headed off in the opposite direction. He watched them as they disappeared into the night.

He fidgeted, adjusting his grip on the heavy metal flashlight, the one they'd found in the Accord's glove compartment. Of course the street was deserted – that was why they'd chosen this particular spot, because it lacked human witnesses.

Or did it? Breakdown had the distinct feeling that they were being watched.

_Stop it_, he commanded himself, quashing the urge to look up at the windows of the surrounding buildings. He'd already done that twice in the last few minutes. The ones facing the street opposite them were boarded up, and the ones on either side were mostly dark, staring down at him like black, lifeless optics –

_Stop it!_ he thought. Biting his lip, he reached out blindly to his side with his free hand. Wildrider's slipped into it.

"Don't worry, Breaks," Wildrider said, giving his hand a reassuring squeeze before releasing it again. "Everything's gonna be fine. Just like last time, all right?"

"Yeah," he said diffidently. _At least it's not as bad as the bus,_ he thought. The ride into the city from the service station had been harrowing. Everyone had stared at them, even though they were no longer naked, and if not for the presence of his team, Breakdown would have gotten off before they'd gone two miles. He shuddered, recalling the way the other passengers had whispered to one another as the Stunticons boarded, the way they'd stared when Dead End offered the driver one of the access passes they'd found in the human's wallet only to be informed contemptuously, _Sorry buddy, we don't take plastic._

That had been embarrassing; apparently the cards weren't travel passes after all. Dead End had been mortified that his supposition was wrong and had sulked for most of the trip, which hadn't helped ease Breakdown's anxiety any.

He slipped his hand into his pocket, feeling the wallet they'd acquired earlier. The location they'd chosen for that ambush had been similar to this one, and he'd felt the same way right up until their chosen target approached them, but they'd succeeded. There was nothing to worry about.

_Just one more_, he thought. _Then we can meet Motormaster and the others at the roundelay point and go back to the motel._

That was probably why he felt so nervous; this was the first time they'd been separated since they became human. Breakdown would have preferred to stick together, but Motormaster had decided they'd have a better shot at getting more money if they split up. He'd taken the tire iron from the car's trunk, leaving Breakdown and Wildrider with only the flashlight between them.

Not that he'd _wanted_ the tire iron – Breakdown had deliberately chosen the flashlight as his weapon because it was less conspicuous – but he wished he had his concussion rifle instead, or that there'd at least been a weapon for Wildrider, too.

The sound of a door opening reached his audials, and a solitary set of footsteps approached them. Breakdown tensed in anticipation. Beside him, he sensed Wildrider doing the same.

He counted under his breath as the footsteps drew closer. When he got to one, Wildrider stepped out of the alley they'd been lurking in as if he were simply taking a shortcut, deliberately bumping into the human as he strode past.

"Hey, watch where you're going!"

"Sorry," Wildrider said. "Didn't see you th – whoa! What happened to your hair?"

Breakdown frowned. That wasn't part of the script! He peeked around the corner, praying the human would be too preoccupied by Wildrider to notice him. When he saw him, Wildrider's odd question abruptly made sense; the man's head was completely hairless, reflecting the dim yellow glow of the nearby streetlights. _He looks like that Aerialbot,_ he thought as he slipped out of the alley.

The human snorted derisively, trying to shoulder past Wildrider, but Wildrider grabbed his arm.

"Your head is really shiny," Wildrider said. "Do you polish it?"

"I'll polish the sidewalk with your face if you don't get outta my way," the bald man retorted. "Get lost."

Wildrider grinned. "Be glad to," he said, "just as soon as you give me your wallet."

The man stiffened, his hands curling into fists. "Big mistake, kid," he said, shaking off Wildrider's grip and drawing his arm back, but Breakdown was already in motion. The flashlight struck the back of the human's bald head with unerring precision, and he dropped like a sack of spare parts.

"Good shot," Wildrider said as they hefted the dazed human and maneuvered his limp form back into the alley. "Told ya everything would be fine."

"Let's just get the money and go," he said, rifling through the bald man's pockets "I don't like it here."

"I like his jacket," Wildrider said. "You think the boss'd be mad if I took that, too?"

The jacket in question was black leather, and Breakdown understood instantly why Wildrider wanted it – the seats of his alt mode had been upholstered in the same material. "No," he said. "Just hurry up and get it before he wakes up. I didn't hit him that hard." He'd didn't mention that he'd been afraid to.

Wildrider quickly wrestled the jacket free while Breakdown retrieved the man's wallet, slipping it into his pocket alongside the first. Afterward he straightened and peered out into the street again. There wasn't a human in sight.

"Clear," he said. "Let's go."

They left the alley and headed down the street, doing their best to look like they belonged there. The place they'd arranged to meet up with the other Stunticons wasn't far, but Breakdown still felt uneasy. Even with Wildrider strolling along beside him, he had to fight the urge to quicken his pace.

"You think we should try for another one?" Wildrider asked after they'd gone a few blocks.

"No," he replied quietly. He couldn't shake the feeling that they were being watched. "Let's just go and meet the others. Something's not right."

Wildrider scoffed but didn't argue. Breakdown vented a sigh of relief – at least Wildrider hadn't teased him about being scared – and cast a quick, nervous glance over his shoulder at the street behind them.

A flicker of movement caught his optic.

He stiffened abruptly, a wave of tension shooting up his backstrut. He found himself longing for his rear view mirror and wishing his human optics functioned as well in the dark as his real ones did. He was certain he'd seen something, but he couldn't make out anything outside the circles of light the streetlamps cast on the sidewalk. Everything beyond them was shrouded in shadow.

"I think someone's following us," he whispered.

Wildrider mimicked his movement, glancing surreptitiously over his shoulder. "I don't see anything," he said. "You worry too much, we're fine."

He nodded, noting that Wildrider had started walking faster despite his dismissive tone. They hurried on in silence, keeping their heads down. Just a few more blocks…

That was when the sound of footsteps reached their audials.

Breakdown hazarded another glance behind him, his ventilations quickening. A pair of human males was following them, their slow deliberate pace and grim expressions making it clear that he and Wildrider were the focus of their attention.

"Two," he whispered, looking around for possible escape routes.

Wildrider made a soft sound of acknowledgement. "Even odds," he murmured back, his tone begging the question – _fight, or flee?_

But before Breakdown could reply, two more humans stepped out into the street in front of them, blocking their path.

There was an alley immediately to their right. Breakdown grabbed Wildrider's arm and ducked into it, pulling Wildrider along with him. His grip tightened on the flashlight. He didn't know who these humans were or what they wanted, but he doubted he or Wildrider would like whatever they had in mind. Dropping all pretense of casualness, they began to run, pelting down the alley as fast as their human legs could carry them.

It ended in a brick wall.

Breakdown whirled around to face the entrance, his optics casting about frantically for some other means of escape. There was a rusted ladder just above him, part of some sort of metal structure that scaled the side of the building to his right, but it hung several feet out of reach. The walls hemming them in were heavily scarred with graffiti and age, lacking either windows or doors. They were trapped.

The two pairs of men appeared at the mouth of the alley. Another man had joined them, and Breakdown recognized immediately that he was their leader – it showed in the way he carried himself, the way the other four hung back a pace as he strode confidently toward them. "Yo, _esé_," he said. "You on our turf."

For all that human culture was still mostly a mystery to him, Breakdown instantly parsed his meaning. These humans had claimed this area as theirs, and found the presence of strangers within it objectionable. As a Decepticon, territorial grievances were something Breakdown could readily understand. His processor was unable to define the word the human had called him, but it identified the language as Spanish, so he responded in kind.

"We're sorry for trespassing," he said. "We didn't know. We'll leave now."

The human seemed unimpressed by his offer; his optics narrowed. "Too late for that, holmes."

_One of them must have seen us rob that other human,_ Breakdown thought. "We'll give you the money," he offered.

The human laughed at that, and the others joined him. "Yeah _esé_, you will," he said.

Breakdown felt a cold drop of liquid trickle down his backstrut as he realized most of them were armed. At least two of the four blocking their only path of escape were carrying lengths of wood or metal, and from their expressions, they intended to use them.

Never before had Breakdown felt so painfully _vulnerable_ as he did in that moment. As a mech he'd have found their weapons laughable, but to his new human body they were as potentially deadly as Megatron's fusion cannon. Worse, they were all _looking_ at him...!

He retreated a step, flinching as his unfamiliar clothing brushed against the wall behind him. They were cornered, outnumbered, and outgunned, lacking even the ability to comm for help. He cast an alarmed look at Wildrider as terror tightened his throat, cutting off his air.

Wildrider might have been frightened too, but the maniacal grin that stretched across his lip components seemed anything but. "Don't worry, Breaks," he said, sneering at the humans as they began to close in on them. "I'll deal with these slaggers."

The leader smirked at his words, raising a hand curled into a loose fist. There was a soft _snick_, and a slim silvery blade suddenly appeared in it. Breakdown's optics widened in surprise – did humans have subspace compartments, too?

Wildrider seemed equally impressed by the display. "That's awesome! How'd you do that?"

"'Rider, get back," he hissed, dropping instinctively into a fighting crouch as the humans moved in for the kill.

But instead Wildrider gave a resounding battle cry and threw himself at the humans' feet, toppling two of them as they faltered in surprise. The third's initial swing flew harmlessly over his head.

The leader dodged Wildrider's impromptu charge, and one of the others was standing out of range. Breakdown flung the flashlight at the latter, and was gratified when it accurately pegged the human on the helm, dropping him in his tracks.

Wildrider did his best to keep the other three occupied, twisting and tangling himself around their legs as they tried to punch and kick him, lashing out with a fist to strike at the vulnerable kibble of one while sinking his denta into the lower leg of another. There was a howl of agony, and the two humans left standing redoubled their efforts, smashing their weapons down on Wildrider's back and arms – and head, Breakdown saw in sickening dread – with heavy, meaty thuds.

But Breakdown couldn't help him. In the moment he'd hesitated, distracted by Wildrider's attack, the leader came after him with the knife. He ducked back reflexively, narrowly avoiding getting stabbed in the optic, but for a moment he actually thought he had been. A sharp stinging sensation exploded from his forehead, and within seconds he was half blinded by a rush of hot, sticky fluid running down the side of his face.

Breakdown made a wild grab for the human's arm as the knife slashed at him again, halting the second strike before it could open another gash in his faceplate but slicing open his palm in the process. For a tense moment they grappled, Breakdown's panic rising as his fluid-slicked grip on the gang leader's wrist started to slip.

The sound of heavy blows striking home in the alley beyond him were coming faster now, closer together. _They're killing Wildrider,_ he thought as he dodged a kick from his adversary, fighting to keep the blade away from his face. _There's too many of them; they're going to –_

But before he could finish the thought, the human was jerked out of his grip and thrown against the alley wall. Breakdown looked up in surprise, and met Motormaster's enraged purple optics. Motormaster looked livid, his expression alone enough to make Breakdown cringe in terror, but at the same time he felt more relieved than he'd ever felt in his life.

Motormaster turned away from him, plucking the gang leader up off the ground and slamming him into the wall a few more times. Breakdown peered past him cautiously, looking for Wildrider.

The two humans who'd been attacking him were now facing off against Drag Strip and Dead End, and for a moment Breakdown couldn't see Wildrider at all. But then Drag Strip darted to one side to avoid a clumsy strike, and Breakdown spotted him crouched on the ground at Drag Strip's feet, wobbling unsteadily as he attempted to rise.

He was about to go help him when the shrill wail of police sirens rose up over the sound of blows being exchanged in the alley, freezing the combatants in their tracks. The humans left standing broke off their attack and fled, abandoning their leader.

Motormaster dropped the hapless human and turned to face them, glancing up at the ladder hanging directly above him. "Up," he commanded.

No one argued; they all knew what those sirens meant. Drag Strip shot forward, scaling Motormaster like a tree and clambering up the ladder. When he reached the first landing, he turned and extended a hand, waiting to assist whoever followed him.

Dead End went next, and then Motormaster lifted Wildrider so that Drag Strip and Dead End could pull him up after them, ignoring his dazed protests that he was fine.

Breakdown turned to follow, pausing when a glint of silver caught his optic. The gang leader's knife was lying on the ground at Motormaster's feet, a few inches from its unconscious owner. He scooped it up hastily, securing it between his denta as he accepted the boost Motormaster gave him, and climbed up onto the crowded landing with the others.

Left alone on the ground with the sirens coming closer, Motormaster jumped, catching hold of the lowest rung. The ladder creaked ominously, and for a second Breakdown was afraid it would give way beneath his weight, but to his relief it held, and Motormaster swiftly hauled himself up to join them.

The metal structure rattled as they quickly scaled it, reaching the roof of the building just as the strobing red and blue lights of the police lit the walls of the alley below. Peering over the ledge, they discovered that with the exception of the leader, all of the remaining downed humans had recovered and fled.

They watched in silence as the police roped off the alley with yellow tape and took the lone human into custody, careful not to make a sound. At one point one of the human authority figures glanced up at the ladder, but didn't bother to climb up and investigate.

They waited for a long time after the police left, crouched and huddled together in the dark, before finally daring to come back down.


	7. Please Drive Safely

_Authors' note : Breakdown refuses to come out of hiding - we think being the narrator twice in a row spooked him (he's probably wondering why we took so much notice of him). So instead we'll just thank you all for your reviews, and say we're glad you're enjoying the fic. There's also a subtle shoutout in this chapter… you know who you are._

* * *

**Chapter 7 : Please Drive Safely**

By the time they reached their room again, the tension of the fight and the escape had drained away, leaving Breakdown exhausted. His self-repair system – thankfully humans had one – had sealed the leaks on his hand and forehead, but there was enough dried blood on his face and clothes that Motormaster ruled out taking a cab back to the motel.

So they walked the entire distance, which seemed to have tripled in length. Breakdown kept looking around in case they were being followed again – _isn't there some kind of portable radar system we could get?_ – and Wildrider was stumbling so badly by the end of the trip that Motormaster finally picked him up and tossed him over one broad shoulder without breaking stride. Wildrider just slumped there and didn't say anything, which was even more worrying.

Even when the door of their room closed behind them, Breakdown didn't feel safe. Dead End led him into the 'racks, peeled off his ruined clothes and washed him down, carefully dabbing at his face and around the cut in his head. It didn't make much difference. The water stung when it trickled into his injuries, and Breakdown felt as if all his internal components were drawing themselves up into small cold knots.

Wrapped in three towels because he was still shivering occasionally, he plodded out and sat down on the bed so Drag Strip could take Wildrider into the 'racks. A pot of coffee had brewed by then and the television was on. It felt normal – about as normal as their lives could get at that point, Breakdown supposed.

_And we're lucky_, he thought. All that time they had complained and grumbled about the lack of clothes, the long distances to walk, the strange solid food… it was nothing compared to the knowledge that he and Wildrider could have died that night. _Or been captured by human law enforcement._

Breakdown held a paper cup of hot coffee wrapped in paper towels and sipped while Motormaster looked him over. Finally he turned away with an unreadable expression and began looking through the wallets they had collected, making a little stack of the paper money.

"Did we get enough?" Dead End asked.

"Nine hundred and twenty," Motormaster said, thumb riffling through the stack. "Is that enough to—"

There was a knock on the door.

Coffee slopped from Breakdown's cup as his hand jolted, and he would have burned himself if not for the towel across his thighs. Wildrider and Drag Strip froze in the doorway of the washracks. Motormaster turned silently and set the money down on the bed without taking his eyes off the door.

Again someone knocked.

Dead End slid like a shadow to the other side of the door as Motormaster picked up the tire iron. Breakdown swallowed hard, his mind racing. The knife he'd found was concealed in his clothes, which were lying on the bathroom floor. _I'll throw the pot of coffin at whoever breaks in as long as Dead End and Motormaster are clear—_

Motormaster yanked the door open. From where he sat Breakdown couldn't see who was outside, but there was a blank silence.

"Emily!" someone shouted from outside. "It's three-ten, not three-oh-one!"

"Oh." There was a nervous chuckle from whoever stood outside. "I'm sorry, I have the wrong room." Breakdown heard quick footsteps move away. "Sorry. Didn't mean to bother you."

Motormaster said nothing, nor did he move. Dead End pushed the door shut.

Breakdown slumped in what was not so much relief as the absence of immediate fear. Fuel was still hammering through his system when Motormaster turned and set down the tire iron.

Wildrider came to sit beside Breakdown, leaning tiredly against him, but Motormaster only moved away from the door when the television started to show a news broadcast about a gang-related altercation that had occurred just an hour before. "Police have a suspect in custody," a human said just before Motormaster's face twisted in a scowl and he turned the television off.

"Breakdown," he said. "We've got nearly a thousand dollars. Is that enough?"

"For a computer?" Breakdown felt doubtful.

"No, to replace your fragged-up processors."

Breakdown ignored that, though it made his face grow warm for some reason. "I don't know. Maybe. I'd have to check with whoever sells them." Somehow, he didn't think it would be – as far as he knew, the best computers in human societies were owned by research institutes and military bases and the government, not by people who had to steal money to pay for their rented rooms.

But he knew better than to say that to Motormaster at the moment. Not only would it be bad timing, Motormaster would just point out that he _didn't_ really know until he had checked with a computer company.

He felt as if he had been carrying a heavy weight across his shoulders and someone had added a load of I-beams to it. _How am I supposed to find a computer company? _Their room had a telephone, but Breakdown didn't know of anyone to call.

Motormaster didn't look pleased at that, but he didn't look angry either, which was the best that Breakdown supposed he could expect. "All right. Then tomorrow you can search for a human establishment which sells them while we get a little more money just in case—"

"I think we should leave," someone said in a small voice.

Breakdown only realized that he had spoken when everyone turned to look at him… and Primus, he would never quite get used to that! He cringed back into the towels reflexively.

"Leave?" Motormaster said as if pronouncing a word in another language.

Breakdown swallowed again. The dark gleaming surface of the coffee in his cup was wobbling for some reason. He nodded.

"It's not safe here," he said, still quietly. He nearly always spoke more softly than the rest of his team – except perhaps Dead End – but now it felt as though there was a steel band around his throat. Not enough to choke him silent, but just tight enough to make him aware of its presence.

Motormaster snorted irritably. "Those pieces of slag won't bother us again. We chased 'em off, remember?"

Wildrider raised his head. "Boss. They had a knife."

"Yeah, they _had_ a knife. Breakdown's got it now and the rest of us can get knives too."

"And what shall we do when they get guns?" Dead End said.

The silence that fell was coldly tense, tinged with fear. But for once, Breakdown didn't feel as if it was something Motormaster was using to control them – it was something outside Motormaster, something potentially stronger than him.

That scared him even more. He pressed closer to Wildrider, drawing as much strength as possible from his warm solid presence – human, but it didn't matter, it was still Wildrider – and spoke.

"We were on their trajectory… I mean, territory," he said, looking from Motormaster to Dead End. "They told me so. Even if we move someplace else, what if there's another group of humans controlling _that? _And you heard what they said on the television—the police have one of the people who attacked us."

Motormaster had many faults, but being slow on the uptake wasn't one of them. "They'll interrogate him."

Wildrider nodded. "With bright lights. And rubber hoses." He lay down and curled up around Breakdown, pillowing his head on a bent elbow.

"Rubber…? Never mind." Motormaster rubbed his jaw, the heel of his hand making a strange rasping sound. "Still, even if he describes us, they don't know anything else. Like who we are, or where we're staying."

"But the more humans we ambush, the more we risk being caught," Breakdown said. "And then they'll put us in a human brig." Just the thought of the security cameras in such a place made him shudder.

Dead End grimaced. "Those probably aren't cleaned very often."

Motormaster ignored him. "If that happens we just stay quiet. Not a word, even if they use rubber hoses on us – and no, Wildrider, I don't want to know how they use those."

"What if they separate us?" Breakdown said.

That struck home. He could see it in the sudden stiffening of Motormaster's shoulders, the unblinking fixity in his eyes. Wildrider's breathing stopped for a moment. Whatever else they had lost, they were still the team they had been from the moment of their creation, still had the others who were a part of themselves in a way that no one who wasn't part of a gestalt could understand. The thought of being taken from that…

"We'll leave, then," Motormaster said finally. "Go somewhere else."

Breakdown had pushed his share of the discussion about as far as he could. He caught Dead End's eye, but Drag Strip was quicker as always.

"So we just repeat the same performance somewhere different?" he said, and managed to make it sound like the usual challenge-to-authority that Motormaster ignored when he could and beat down when he couldn't.

That time, though, Motormaster just looked at him, looked in silence until Drag Strip shifted back a little, shoulders to the wall, and dropped his gaze. When Motormaster took a step towards him Drag Strip's head jolted back up, but for once there was no cruel, anticipatory look on Motormaster's face. He looked as though he had his back to a wall as well.

"What do _you_ propose we do?" he said through clenched jaws.

_Not fight with each other,_ Breakdown thought. He looked at Dead End again, silently pleading.

"I suppose we could leave," Dead End said. "Not that it makes a difference in the end, of course. _Plus ca change, plus c'est le meme chose._ Eventually we'll be caught and discovered. And in these little organic bodies we're sure to die quickly and messily."

Even Motormaster looked as though he didn't quite know how to respond to that at first, but it shifted his attention away from Drag Strip. "We're not going to die, so shut the frag up about that," he said, then rounded on Breakdown. "All right, you brought this up. Find a way for us to get money without attracting human attention."

_Why do I always have to be the ideas mech at times like this? _Breakdown thought, but he knew the answer. Being the team's scout, he took the most interest in human society and he had always thought that if only he was a human, none of them would stare at him. He would be wonderfully unnoticed, would slip as easily into a native population as a card into a pack, rather than standing out as a fast and expensive sports car.

"I'm waiting." Motormaster gritted the two words out.

_Think, Breakdown, think! How do humans get money without having law enforcement after them?_

"Jobs," he said suddenly.

Motormaster's optic ridges came together. He looked at Dead End as if waiting for the word to be translated.

"Employment," Dead End said. "We find paid work."

"Work?" Drag Strip's lip curled. "As what?"

"I don't know." Breakdown resisted an urge to reply, "Traffic control cops." "But there have to be at least some jobs available in a human city. Especially a big one."

Motormaster still looked deeply skeptical. "And why would anyone hire us? We don't even have human names."

"I could come up with those." Breakdown had already come up with several different human names for himself, on the accounts he used for hacking.

Drag Strip folded his arms. "I like _my_ name. Drag Strip. What's wrong with that?"

An ominous rumble came from Motormaster's throat, almost as if he still had a powerful engine. "It stands out like a plane in a parking lot, that's what's wrong with it, and if the humans know who you are they'll haul you off to their brig. Or better yet, turn you over to the Autobots. You fine with that? Because I think I might be."

"All _right_," Drag Strip said. "But I still want my name, Breakdown. Make a human name out of it."

"What?" Not for the first time, Breakdown wanted to slap some sense into him; this was no time to be demanding! "How am I supposed to do that?"

"I don't know. You're the expert on humans, not me."

Motomaster made a disgusted sound. "Breakdown, pick whatever names will help us go unnoticed. I'll get some food and travel passes while you're doing it. Dead End, get that map and find us somewhere to go."

Dead End unfolded the map they had found in the humans' Accord, studied it and then turned it the correct way around. "I suppose we should select the nearest major city," he said finally, sounding as though he had been asked to choose between deactivation by electrocution or explosive.

"Yes," Motormaster said tightly. "Pick something on the coast, so we'll be close to home. And do it in the next ten seconds or I'll fill the sink with water and hold your head under it until you learn to make decisions without whining about them."

Breakdown winced inwardly. He might have suggested finding a new location himself, but he was too unnerved by then and he knew why Motormaster had asked Dead End instead of him. Although Breakdown was the scout, Dead End had had the best radar, so he had often been ordered to scan ahead when they drove out. Old habits died hard.

"Very well," Dead End sounded resigned. "San Francisco."

Motormaster grunted an acknowledgement. "Fine. Drag Strip, you're with me." He turned and strode out.

_But that's a new habit_, Breakdown thought. Previously, Motormaster had left their room by himself; now, with their new vulnerability very much in evidence and the possibility that human law enforcement had been alerted to them, it was best not to be alone.

Once the door had closed behind Drag Strip, he looked down in mild surprise that Wildrider was so quiet, only to realize that Wildrider had fallen asleep. Dark hair that looked reddish where the light struck it was still slightly damp from the washracks, and the darker shadow of a bruise spread across Wildrider's cheekbone.

Dead End folded the map neatly and put it away, then took Breakdown's damp towels away to hang them up on the rails that ran around the washrack's walls. Breakdown could imagine him arranging them so that they were all perfectly straight. He lay down as well. After the tense confrontations of the day, it felt good to have the room quiet and peaceful and all to themselves. Breakdown liked the company of his teammates – well, all except Motormaster – but he enjoyed his own space and some time to himself as well.

He tried not to think of his quarters back in the Decepticon base, his private little room with his maps and posters on the walls. He tried even harder not to think about Soundwave sneaking in there to install hidden cameras, or Soundwave's nasty little midgets pawing through his belongings.

Dead End came back in, gave him a long thoughtful look and pulled the suitcase out from beneath the bed. "I think I saw some human grooming equipment in here," he said as he opened it. "Ah, yes." He took out a zippered case and opened it, studying the contents critically before he selected a brush.

Breakdown had used those on the treads and wheel-wells of the tires he no longer had, so he automatically extended a leg. Dead End took the brush to his head instead, carefully stroking the bristles through his hair and smoothing it back from his forehead. "There's something we can apply to that injury too," he said when he had finished, and took a small box labeled "Band-Aid" out of the case.

Breakdown watched curiously as he extracted a narrow strip of material and peeled off a layer of it. "Hold still," he said, and pressed it down flat across the cut on Breakdown's forehead. Breakdown tried to see it but his eyes wouldn't rotate that far upward.

Dead End drew back, eyes narrowing in concentration as he studied his handiwork. "Hmm… no, that's not quite straight. I'd better take it off and reapply it."

"Nnnnno, that's all right." There was some kind of adhesive holding the strip in place, and he had a feeling that pulling it off wouldn't be easy. He supposed the strips were skin-colored so that they would go unnoticed from a distance, making injured humans look less like easy targets.

"Oh, very well." Dead End stuck another piece across the cut on Breakdown's hand, though it took him a good two minutes to position it accurately and Breakdown had to suppress an urge to call him Hook. "There," he said.

"Thanks," Breakdown said but he felt worried, because the sound of their voices hadn't brought Wildrider back online. "Do you think we should wake him up?" he said uneasily. "He might have a percussion."

Dead End shook Wildrider's shoulder and, when he yawned and stirred, told him to find a movie for them to watch. Wildrider grumbled that he wanted to sleep, but he was soon flicking through channels while Dead End continued looking through the contents of the case.

"Is this for hair too?" he said, holding up another brush with short bristles embedded in it. "It's very small."

"Maybe it's for eyebrows," Breakdown said. "They're small too."

"And this?" Dead End took out a shorter plastic implement with a wide head. Light reflected off it as he turned it in his hand, and when Breakdown looked more closely he saw overlapping metal blades set in the head, but he had no idea what they did. Dead End held it up before his eyes and squinted at it.

"There are little hairs in it," he said thoughtfully, then took Breakdown's arm and stroked the implement along it. Breakdown felt nothing except a slight friction, but when he looked down at his arm he let out a shocked squeak that took Wildrider's attention away from the television set.

"What is it?" Dead End said. "Did that hurt?"

"No, but now I have a bare patch on one arm! I'm assimilatrical. People will stare at me."

Dead End sighed. "Well, I doubt the hair can be put back, so why don't I just do your other arm as well?" He held a hand out.

Mollified, Breakdown gave him the other arm. "All right, just make them identical."

"Guys, look!" Wildrider said and gestured at the television with the remote control. "It's a commercial with that brush thingy."

Breakdown watched until the commercial was over, while Dead End looked in the case again and took out a small tube. "This isn't the product advertised and may not make our teeth their whitest, but it'll have to do. And Breakdown, now that I've finished with your maintenance, do try to find some human names for us before Motormaster gets back." He sat down on Breakdown's other side, _tsk_ing in disapproval at the untidiness of Wildrider's hair before trying to restore it to a semblance of order.

"How am I supposed to make a human name out of 'Drag Strip'?" Breakdown said without much interest. He liked the idea of coming up with human designations that would allow them to pass unnoticed, but he wasn't as keen on Drag Strip placing restrictions on the process.

For all Dead End's indifference and chronic depression, he did tend to respond better to requests for help than to orders and insults. "Make an anagram out of it," he said. "Mix up the letters and put them back together to make a convincing human name."

Intrigued, Breakdown got up and retrieved the pen they had taken from the humans' car. He found a scrap of paper as well, then sat down on the bed and began to scribble. One thing he did like about being human, though he was careful not to mention that where Motormaster could hear, was that everything was adjusted to their new size.

"I did your name," he said happily. "Dan Deed. How does that sound?"

There was a pause. "I'll try to remember it," Dead End said finally.

Breakdown supposed that was the best response he could get; at least Dead End hadn't grumbled or pointed out anything wrong with the name or demanded another one. He tried out a few more combinations. "Mine is Bad Kowen. I mean Brad Kowen. The best I can get for Motormaster is Tomas Morter."

"What about High-Maintenance in Yellow? Or no longer in yellow, as it were."

'Drag Strip,' as Breakdown was discovering, wasn't easy to turn into a human name. He scratched valiantly at the paper, turned it over and worked on the other side. "Sid R. Pragt," he said finally. "It's the best I can do."

"It sounds like Starscream with a glitch in his vocalizer," was Wildrider's opinion. "What about my name?"

"Um." Breakdown carefully tore the paper into tiny scraps that no one would be able to piece back together. "Wil Drider."

"What?" Wildrider's eyes opened all the way. "That's the same as my real name! It's not even mixed up like everyone else's."

Breakdown shrugged. "You try monogramming 'Wildrider' and see how far you get."

"Fine. I'll just pick my own human name." Wildrider frowned, considering. "Like… Melanie."

_I knew there'd be some damage from him being hit in the head. _"Wildrider," Breakdown said, "are you sure you want to call yourself that? Melanie _died_ at the end of that film."

"Everyone dies in the end, eventually," Dead End informed them. "And rather untidily, if they're human."


	8. Sticker Shock

_Authors' note: Dead End returns to brighten your day! You're probably feeling better already. _

_Also, in the course of this story, one of the Stunticons becomes involved with a human female. If you'd like to guess which one (the Stunticon, not the human female), leave a comment naming your 'con of choice!  
_

– _anon_decepticon and QoS/mdperera_

_Thanks also to Kookaburra 1701 for her support and input!_

_

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_

**Chapter 8 : Sticker Shock**

Dead End hated riding the bus.

Granted, he'd only ridden on two in the entire sum of his existence, but he felt quite certain no other mode of transportation could possibly be as loathsome. Riding on a bus meant being crammed in shoulder-to-shoulder with the very dregs of humanity – most of whom appeared unfamiliar with the concept of bathing – for hours on end. It was crowded. It reeked.

But that wasn't the worst part. No, the worst part was knowing that his beautiful alt mode would have transported him to his destination with far more speed, grace, and style than any human could ever hope to achieve. Staring out the window and watching the world slip sluggishly by only served to remind him of what he had lost, made him long to feel the wind gusting past his chassis as the road unrolled beneath his tires like a smooth, endless ribbon of asphalt.

Venting a sigh, he turned away from the window.

"Do you want to switch?" Breakdown asked, his vocalizer barely rising above a whisper. Breakdown was sitting in the seat next to him, on the aisle, and from his hunched shoulders and the furtive glances he kept casting at the human passengers around them, Dead End knew he hadn't made the offer for _his_ benefit.

He nodded anyway. It didn't really matter to him where he sat or who stared at him. The bandage on Breakdown's forehead was an uncomfortable reminder of how much worse things could have been.

He slid across the seat as Breakdown clambered over him to claim his spot by the window. The human sitting across the aisle eyed them, and Dead End rewarded him with a thousand-mile stare. The human looked away.

Smirking faintly, he glanced back at Motormaster, who was seated directly behind the human and across from Wildrider and Drag Strip in a position where he could keep an optic on all four of them. Motormaster's expression was distant, unreadable. Dead End faced forward again.

Behind him, he could hear Wildrider and Drag Strip whispering to each other, but he didn't bother trying to listen in. Wildrider would be complaining that it was too quiet, or Drag Strip griping that his feet hurt – nothing Dead End cared to hear about.

He pondered attempting to recharge, but the thought held little appeal. He almost regretted giving up the window and the pitiful diversion it offered. He longed for something to read.

Instead he looked around again, noting with distaste the abundance of human refuse littering the floor of the bus – discarded food wrappers, crumpled bits of foil, a thick sheaf of folded paper –

Dead End frowned, noting the lines of tiny black print covering the last. Leaning down, he picked it up gingerly between his thumb and forefinger and unfolded it. The words _San Francisco Chronicle_ were printed across the top in bold gothic letters.

It didn't look anything like a datapad, or even like the human books he'd seen in the past, but he knew the word _chronicle_ meant "record" or "history." Lacking anything better to do, he began to read.

The first handful of pages held little of interest to him. Most of the stories – the entire record appeared to be a collection of short stories on various topics – focused on human concerns; their politics, their economy, and so forth. The stories that described the impact of various ecological disasters were somewhat amusing though, so he kept reading.

"What is that?" Breakdown asked, belatedly noticing what Dead End was doing.

"A human chronicle," he replied absently, turning the page.

"Oh," Breakdown said, sitting up a little straighter. "Can I read it too?"

Dead End responded by extending his arm toward Breakdown's half of the seat, holding the unfolded paper so that it was positioned roughly between them. Breakdown shifted a little closer, leaning against him so that he could read over his shoulder.

The next section was entitled _Sports_, and they bypassed it after a cursory glance by mutual agreement. _Business_ was equally incomprehensible. The section called _Food_ was intriguing, but confusing – humans, it seemed, were not content to settle for a single form of fuel in a handful of different grades, and the sheer variety of options available was frankly daunting.

He glanced over at Breakdown, intending to ask his opinion on the subject, and discovered that Breakdown had fallen into recharge, his head pillowed on Dead End's shoulder. Dead End smiled faintly, reaching up to brush a strand of hair off of Breakdown's forehead.

The following section was called _Living_. "Surely it couldn't be that easy," he muttered.

It wasn't, not really – the section didn't contain anything resembling written instructions on how to live as a human – but it was informative nonetheless. He eagerly devoured the subsection on human fashion, and as he read it began to dawn on him that there were some minor but important details that had escaped their attention.

He turned to the next section in a much darker mood, but what he found there raised his spirits considerably – pages and pages of advertisements for jobs, living quarters, and items for sale – including computers. It was precisely the sort of information they needed, and he'd stumbled upon it purely by chance.

He debated waking Breakdown to share his discovery, but after recalling how long it had taken him to fall into recharge last night, Dead End decided to leave him be.

He turned the page and resumed reading.

* * *

"Right," Motormaster said as they stretched the kinks out of their servos after the long bus ride. "First things first – we need a computer. Breakdown, where do we go to get one?"

Breakdown looked at Dead End, who handed over the human record he'd found, folded to the page where they'd found the advertisement for a place that sold computers. "This place has them," he said. "We should probably call them first."

Motormaster scowled. "Why not just go there?"

"It's not nearby," Dead End said. "We'd have to pay for transportation. Better to find out how much it will cost us before we squander our funds getting there."

Motormaster's frown deepened, but he couldn't argue with that logic. He looked at Breakdown. "Call them," he said, relinquishing a handful of coins.

Breakdown took the money and moved off to the bank of pay phones lining the far wall. When he returned several minutes later, Dead End noted he was several shades paler than before.

"Well?" Motormaster said. "How much are they?"

"Um…" Breakdown said, "How much do we have again?"

"Eight hundred dollars."

"We're…gonna need a little more," Breakdown said in a small voice.

Motormaster scowled. "How much more?"

Breakdown's lips moved but no sound came out. The fuel line in Motormaster's forehead began to throb. "How much?" he demanded.

Breakdown fidgeted, avoiding Motormaster's optics. Motormaster surged forward with a growl, grabbing him by the shoulders and hoisting him clear off the ground, his feet dangling nearly a foot off the floor. Breakdown flinched, turning his helm to the side and squeezing his eyes shut.

"Fffff-," he stammered.

Dead End raised an eyebrow. "Four or five hundred more?"

Breakdown shook his helm miserably, waving a hand in the air.

"Maybe if you wrote it down," Wildrider suggested. "Or wait – charades! First syllable sounds like..?" Motormaster aimed a kick at him while still holding Breakdown aloft, and Wildrider jumped aside with a startled yelp.

Breakdown looked at him, his optics pleading. Dead End sighed, rifling through his pockets for a piece of paper. Edging warily closer to Motormaster, he thrust it into Breakdown's waiting hand. On the opposite side of him, Drag Strip fished out a pen and did likewise.

Smoothing out the scrap of paper against Motormaster's chest and using it as a surface to write on, Breakdown scribbled down a figure. Dead End took the paper from him and studied it thoughtfully.

"Ah," he said.

"What?" Motormaster demanded, still glaring at Breakdown. "How much is it?"

"Five thousand dollars."

Dropping Breakdown, Motormaster rounded on him, grabbing Dead End's wrist and twisting it as he tore the scrap of paper out of his hand. He stared at it for a long moment, then crumpled it in his fist.

Dead End's expression didn't change. "It seems we'll be staying a bit longer than expected."

There was a moment of tense silence, and then Motormaster released him, turning away in disgust.

"So now what?" Drag Strip asked.

"Jobs," Motormaster said through gritted denta. "We find jobs."

"Not just yet," Dead End said.

Motormaster turned to face him. "What do you mean, not yet?"

"We need better clothes. According to this," he said, holding up the paper, "humans are very particular about clothing. When seeking employment, one must make the right impression. Clothing does that. It tells the other humans what you are."

"What does our clothing say we are?" Breakdown asked.

"Crazy," he replied.

* * *

Referring once more to his chronicle, Dead End located the address of what the humans called a "thrift" shop within walking distance. After crossing the threshold they simply stood and stared, daunted by the sheer variety of items to choose from.

"We only get what we need to find jobs," Motormaster said, breaking the silence. "Dead End?"

He stepped forward and scanned the racks with a critical optic, finally pulling out a pair of pants made of some dark, heavy material and holding them up to himself. He nodded a moment later and folded them over his arm. Next he selected a large upper covering, one made out of a soft grey fabric and sporting a hood. He handed it to Motormaster, who eyed it dubiously.

Taking that as their cue, Drag Strip and Wildrider practically attacked the racks, perusing the vast assortment of human clothing. Breakdown did the same, albeit more timidly.

"Can I get this?" Breakdown asked him quietly as Dead End crouched down to examine the human footwear lined up on the floor beneath the racks of clothing. Looking up, he saw that Breakdown had picked out a shirt patterned with large blotches of brown, green, and grey.

"Only if you plan on joining the human military," he said. "It won't work in a city anyway."

"Oh," Breakdown said, looking crestfallen.

Dead End straightened, sifting through the rack and coming up with a smaller version of the shirt he'd found for Motormaster, this one a vibrant blue reminiscent of Breakdown's former color scheme. "What about this one?" he said. "It has a hood."

Breakdown's expression brightened. "Thanks," he whispered, ducking his helm. His hand brushed against Dead End's in a shy, lingering touch as he accepted the garment.

"Sheesh, get a berth, you two," Drag Strip said, pausing in his assault on the clothing rack to smirk at them.

Breakdown snatched his hand away, his face flushing. Dead End glared at Drag Strip. "Those shoes of yours are only worn by females, you know."

Wildrider laughed. Motormaster rolled his optics. Drag Strip scowled. "I'm still taller than you now," he said.

Dead End smiled sweetly, reaching up to pull his human visor down over his optics. As Drag Strip snorted and turned back to the racks, Dead End looked to Motormaster, nodding at his lower covering. "That's only worn by females too," he said.

"Females get all the good stuff," Drag Strip muttered.

Quickly scanning the rack, Dead End pulled out another set of leg coverings, ones that looked large enough to fit Motormaster's massive frame. "Try this."

Motormaster snatched the pants out of his hand and turned away, grumbling.

"Hey!" Wildrider said. "Can I buy this?" He held up a black t-shirt decorated with the image of Optimus Prime. Drag Strip elbowed him in the side, looking pointedly in Motormaster's direction.

Motormaster turned, his optics narrowing dangerously. "Yeah. Get it so I can tear it apart."

"That would certainly be an efficient use of our limited funds," Dead End commented dryly. Motormaster glared at him, but he just shrugged.

In the end they settled on the two shirts he'd chosen for Motormaster and Breakdown, the pants he'd picked out for Motormaster and himself, and footwear for all of them except Wildrider, who had claimed the only suitable pair from the suitcase. Drag Strip found a pair of boots with heels and elevated soles that Dead End had confirmed were _not_ female-specific – hideously ugly, but not female-specific – and insisted on buying them, refusing to consider anything else.

A shelf displaying pre-packaged undergarments caught Dead End's attention as they headed toward the front of the shop to purchase the items they'd chosen. He added several of those to the pile as well.

"Are we done yet?" Motormaster demanded, his patience obviously wearing thin as the number of their selections continued to rise.

Dead End hummed thoughtfully, scanning each of them in turn, and then running his gaze once more across the racks. He wasn't certain Drag Strip's shirt was acceptable, but he was feeling vindictive enough to let it go. All of the others had been accounted for.

He was about to turn back and say as much when he saw it.

He stepped forward, entranced. Wedged between two other garments was a shirt of rich, deep red, fashioned out of some delicate material that shimmered faintly in the light. He ran a finger across it. It was even softer than it looked.

He didn't actually _need_ to replace his upper garment; it was serviceable. But it was made of a stiff white fabric, coarse to the touch, and it didn't gleam like a well-polished chassis.

He plucked the shirt out of the rack, adding it to the pile in his arms. "We are now."

* * *

After leaving the shop with their purchases, Dead End proposed they return to the bus station where they could use the restrooms to change into their new garments. By then their human bodies were demanding more fuel, so they stopped at an eating establishment that sold something called "tacos," which Wildrider enjoyed and Drag Strip complained about.

"Look, it's falling out again! This is like drinking out of a cube with a hole in it."

"Shut up and refuel," Motormaster growled. "We've wasted half the day already. We need to find jobs."

"We need to find living quarters, is what we need," Dead End said.

Motormaster's optics narrowed. "So we'll find another motel."

"Economically unwise. We're going to have to remain in this city long enough to accumulate the funds to buy a computer. That won't happen overnight. We need somewhere to stay in the interim. A base of operations, as it were."

"A _temporary_ base of operations," Motormaster corrected him. "So what's wrong with finding another motel? We can pay by the night."

"Exactly," Dead End replied. "Over an extended period, the cost becomes prohibitive." He pulled out the folded paper again. "There are advertisements in here for living quarters one can purchase for a monthly fee –"

Motormaster's taco crumbled in his hand. "Monthly?" he repeated, his voice low and dangerous.

"– that is considerably lower than the cost of thirty days in a motel, assuming the prices we've paid previously are comparable to what we'd pay here," Dead End persisted, ignoring the interruption.

"So it could be _weeks_ before we inform Megatron about what happened," Motormaster said. "Why don't we just reserve space in the Crypt while we're at it?"

"Already done."

Motormaster rose from his seat, throwing down the remains of his meal. Dead End met his furious gaze, his expression calm and resigned.

"We'll need a phone line too," Breakdown ventured.

"What?" Motormaster said, tearing his gaze away from Dead End to stare at him. So did everyone else, which made Breakdown shrink down in his seat.

"F-for the computer," Breakdown said in a small voice. "We'll need to connect to a phone line to contact the base."

That fuel line in Motormaster's forehead was throbbing again. His jaw worked as he sat back down. "Fine. Dead End – find us the cheapest accommodations available."

"I already have," he replied, opening the paper to the page he'd marked earlier. "This one," he said, pointing out the ad. "And it's nearby. We simply have to call and arrange to meet with the owner."

"Do we get our own rooms?" Drag Strip asked.

"Is there a TV?" Wildrider chimed in.

Motormaster kicked them both from under the table.

* * *

"…comes fully furnished, and it's available immediately," said the reedy human who'd agreed to show them the apartment. "You won't find a deal like that for what I'm asking anywhere else in town. If you don't believe me, just ask around!"

"Mmmhmm," Dead End replied noncommittally as they stood in the entryway looking around. The human had introduced himself as Doug, the landlord, although he didn't seem very lordly in Dead End's opinion. His unctuous tone was reminiscent of Swindle's. "And why is that?"

"No reason. I just want to see the place rented out, that's all. It's not making me any money standing around empty. Check out this closet space!"

"Are those bullet holes?" Wildrider asked.

Doug laughed nervously. "I'll waive the damage deposit."

Dead End looked at Motormaster; Motormaster nodded. "We'll take it."

"Great!" Doug said. "So how will you be paying?"

"With this," Motormaster said, pulling a fistful of crumpled bills from his pocket.

"You're paying in cash..?" Doug looked startled, then gave them a weak grin. "You guys aren't drug dealers, are you?"

The Stunticons exchanged puzzled looks. "What are drug dealers?" Breakdown asked.

"Never mind," Doug replied. "Whose name is this going under? Actually, what are all your names?"

"Tomas Morter," Motormaster replied after a brief pause.

"Sid R. Pragt," Drag Strip said proudly.

"Dan Deed," Dead End said. He nodded toward Breakdown, who'd slunk behind him. "That's Bad Krowen – I mean, Brad Kowen." _Great, now _I'm _doing it,_ he thought.

"And I'm Melanie," Wildrider said. "Melanie Wildes."

The landlord blinked, staring at Wildrider with a bewildered expression. "Riiiiiight," he said. "And you guys are, uh…?"

"A team," Motormaster said. "We're a team."

"We're the best," said Drag Strip.

"We're busy," Dead End said. "Now, shoo."

"Stop looking at me!" Breakdown said.

"That's a _lot_ of bullet holes," Wildrider observed.

Doug shook his head. "Never mind; I don't wanna know. Just sign the lease and gimme the cash. You can move in right away."

* * *

Their new base of operations did indeed come equipped with furniture, which was shabbier than what they'd had in the two motels they'd stayed at, but better than nothing. The apartment could have used a thorough cleaning, in Dead End's opinion – apart from a large section of the floor next to the wall with the bullet holes, everything in it was covered in a thin film of dust – but it appeared to have most of the necessities.

It _didn't_ have a television, much to Wildrider's disappointment, and Motormaster denied his request to get one, reminding them all not to get too comfortable – they wouldn't be staying long. Dead End agreed, opining that they'd be lucky to survive the month they'd paid for.

There were three bedrooms in total, roughly equal in size, each sparsely furnished with a storage compartment for clothing and a stripped, stained mattress. Unsurprisingly, Drag Strip wanted one to himself, but so did Motormaster, and he backed up his claim with his fists. The other Stunticons raised no objections, mainly because none of them wanted to share a room with Motormaster.

"All right, all right!" Drag Strip howled, probably just to get Motormaster to stop twisting his arm like that. "But I'm not sharing with Dead End. Wildrider, you're with me."

Dead End smirked. "No argument here." Drag Strip's competitiveness was often insufferable, and Wildrider kicked in his sleep.

Once that was settled, they began making themselves at home. Motormaster disappeared into the room he'd staked out as him own. Wildrider complained that it was too quiet, again bemoaned their lack of a TV, and then got into a tussle with Drag Strip out of sheer boredom. Breakdown investigated the appliances in the room he'd identified as the kitchen while the other two rolled around on the floor, trading blows and insults.

Dead End seized the opportunity to make use of the washrack, which was cramped but functional. Their human bodies, he'd noted, tended to acquire an unpleasant aroma over the course of a day, and spending most of it on a bus in the company of some highly fragrant individuals hadn't helped.

Afterward he experimented with some of the grooming equipment he'd found in the suitcase yesterday, doing his best to get his hair to lie smooth and remove the distasteful crop of spiky bristles that had sprouted along his jaw. When he was satisfied that he'd done all he could, he retrieved his neatly folded clothing and returned to the common room.

To his surprise, it was empty. He inclined his head toward the room Drag Strip and Wildrider had chosen, and heard them conversing in hushed whispers. Since neither of them were the sort to speak softly of their own volition, he concluded Motormaster must have ordered them into recharge.

The door to Motormaster's room was shut, and no sounds emanated from within, so he moved on to his own. Breakdown looked up from where he was seated on the bed with his arms wrapped around his knees, a relieved expression flashing across his face as Dead End entered. "Motormaster said we have to start looking for jobs in the morning," he said. "There's not much money left."

Dead End nodded, stowing his clothing in the top compartment of the storage unit. Breakdown had left his own strewn on the floor; he picked them up and put them away as well, then joined him on the bed.

Breakdown curled up against him, draping an arm across his chestplate and pressing as close as he was able, clearly craving the reassurance of physical contact. After a moment, he giggled. "Your face is smooth," he said.

"Yours isn't," he replied. "In the morning I'll show you how to fix that."

"Okay," Breakdown agreed. They lapsed into silence, listening to the soft sound of their ventilations filling the quiet room. Dead End felt the patches covering the wounds on Breakdown's forehead and hand against his skin, and tried not to think about how he'd gotten them. They were all so _fragile_ now…

"Do you think we'll ever get home again?" Breakdown asked.

Dead End lifted his gaze, meeting his troubled brown eyes. A ghost of a smile tugged at his lip components as he slid his arms around Breakdown's waist, gathering him close. "You should know better than to ask me that."

"Right," Breakdown said, snuggling into his embrace. "Never mind." To Dead End's satisfaction, this time he slipped into recharge almost immediately.

* * *

_A/N: Just in case it wasn't apparent from the previous chapters, this fic is set in the late 1980s. That's why the computer is so expensive, and why many of the Stunticons' living expenses are somewhat cheaper than they would be today._


	9. Full Throttle

_Authors' notes: Drag Strip acquires the perfect clothes and conquers the world. Sort of. The song referenced in this chapter is the Bloodhound Gang's "Bad Touch", which was released in 1999, but was too funny to pass up. We recommend playing it when you first reach the lyrics. You'll see why._

_Also, there's another shout-out here… you know who you are, and thanks for reviewing!_

_– anon_decepticon and QoS/mdperera_

_Thanks also to Kookaburra 1701 for her support and input!_

_

* * *

_

**Chapter 9 : Full Throttle**

"So tell us," Starscream said. "How did you get your real frames back?"

Skywarp pushed his cube of high-grade across the table. "We want to hear all about it!"

Drag Strip smiled slightly as he accepted the proffered cube, noting as he did so the gleam of something more than interest in the Seekers' optics. "It wasn't easy," he said. "And of course Motormaster was utterly ineffective when it came to blending in with the organic vermin and thereby using them for our purposes."

He took a sip of the high-grade and flicked his glossa over his lips to catch an errant drop. Thundercracker's internal fans switched on.

"But I knew from the start what we had to do," he said.

Starscream leaned forward. "And that was…?"

"Hey, buddy, last stop!"

Drag Strip jolted out of his daydream, startled. The Seekers vanished and were replaced by dingy bus seats, litter on the floor and a human in the driver's seat just ahead, half-turned and staring at him.

"This is the last stop before the depot," the human said. "You wanna go back there or get out?"

Drag Strip stalked to the door. He hated buses as a mode of transportation – _slow, unmaneuverable slabs of slag!_ – and hated them even more because he had to put up with humans of all kinds inside. He wasn't as finicky as Dead End, but he liked keeping himself clean, and buses seemed to carry a disgusting amount of mud, used cups, chewing gum and discarded paper.

_I can't wait till I can afford a car. Or better yet, _be _a car. _

He climbed down the steps and the bus took off in a deep cough of diesel fumes. Drag Strip buttoned his blazer and headed for the job placement agency.

He was pleased about his clothes. Breakdown had discovered a small library near their apartment and he had found a book about what humans were expected to wear in the workforce (he liked that word; it implied some excitement on the job). Of course, without ID they couldn't check out the book, but Drag Strip had learned what clothes were appropriate – pants, not jeans, plus a jacket or blazer.

Motormaster had divided what little was left of their remaining money by five and doled out a share to each of them, to pay for transportation to possible jobs and any meals on the road. Drag Strip decided he could go without a little food to buy suitable clothes; the most important thing was getting a job fast – and first. So the next day he returned to the thrift store.

He saw it right away. The Perfect Blazer. The one that was made for him. The dazzlingly bright one in a yellow that made him feel warm just to look at it. It fitted him too, and Drag Strip took that as a sign that he was on the right track. He bought a pair of pants as well, but keeping the splendor of his blazer in mind, went for something in a subdued white with just a hint of gold embroidery running down each leg from hip to ankle, like a human version of racing stripes.

Delighted with the new additions to his wardrobe, he wore them when he went job-hunting over the next two days, but he didn't have much luck. Most places with job openings wanted employees with qualifications or experience, and Drag Strip had experience at only two things : racing and fighting. Or they asked for ID, and he didn't have any. And at four offices, the receptionists told him the job openings had already been filled.

"Well, what are they waiting for then?" he said, indicating a row of candidates sitting in chairs nearby and looking drab in their suits of black, grey and navy blue. When the receptionist hesitated, clearly not wanting to break the bad news to them, he addressed the other candidates.

"The position's been filled. You should all go home." _And maybe dress a little better too,_ he thought as he left.

None of the other Stunticons had jobs yet, but that didn't make Drag Strip feel any better. He had to be the first to make money. The thought of being beaten to that by anyone else was galling. He even tried leaving their apartment very early so that he could be first in line at any place which sported a Help Wanted sign, but that didn't seem to work either.

Nor did the job placement agency. Drag Strip waited nearly two hours for the first available consultant, growing more and more impatient, only to have the consultant find fault with everything in his application. "If you didn't go to high school, Mr. Pragt, you'll need a GED," she said. "Also, you cannot have been born in 1985. You need to fill this out correctly." She hesitated. "And do you have any other clothes?"

Drag Strip strode out of the building, wishing he could slam the automatic door behind him. To put the final touch on his frustration, the last bus had gone and he didn't have enough money for a cab.

He shoved his hands into his pockets and started walking, wondering what he was going to do. _When am I supposed to have been born? What the frag is a GED?_ Breakdown had talked about fake identification but he didn't know how to make or buy any. For the first time Drag Strip felt disheartened. He had tried his hardest and was getting nowhere.

The sky was growing darker, and Drag Strip knew it would take him at least another two hours to get home. _Will there be any dinner left for me?_ He was used to being hungry by then and had learned to dismiss the sensation, but the thought of starving all night was harder to ignore. He plodded on grimly, hoping his platform boots wouldn't be as vicious on his feet as his high heels had been.

Other humans bustled about the streets like ants but they hardly even registered on Drag Strip's awareness. He did notice the ones who drove, though, noticed and resented them. _It isn't fair. We're struggling just to make enough money to contact the base and we don't even have a car, let alone our alt-modes._

And the humans didn't notice _him_, which made it worse. He wasn't just a Decepticon, he was a Stunticon, a future inheritor and ruler of the planet. The humans should have been unable to take their eyes off him.

Music drifted from the open door of a club just ahead, while a hot dog stand on the corner gave off smells that made Drag Strip's mouth water. He set his teeth and kept walking, trying not to look at the food, and his gaze went to the sign just above the club.

He stopped in his tracks, halting so abruptly that a human walking behind bumped into him. Drag Strip shook himself absently to get rid of any traces of the contact, not even bothering to look. He didn't think he could have glanced away from that sign if Optimus Prime had driven up the road.

It said, "THE DRAG STRIP".

_A human place named after me!_ The music came from within the open club, but when Drag Strip peered inside, it was too dark to make out anything but a large crowd of people. Others shifted and milled about near the entrance. Drag Strip threw his shoulders back, hooked his thumbs into his pockets and walked in.

He pushed his way past the humans, for once too intrigued to be annoyed that they didn't automatically draw aside at his approach. The club was large but crammed with humans, most at tables on the floor, though some stood around a counter at one end of the room. _Collecting their rations_, Drag Strip realized when he noticed another human behind the counter handing out containers of liquid fuel.

As he took a step in that direction, the music faded. The lights dimmed almost to dark. Surprised and a little nervous – not that he would ever have shown it – Drag Strip stayed still and waited, wondering what was going on. _And why is this place named after me? It doesn't seem to have anything to do with racing. _

A spotlight came on, illuminating a stage brightly and the music started up again, louder than before. A police officer strode on to the stage.

Drag Strip took a step back in horror. All he could remember was what Breakdown had told them, that if they kept robbing people, human law enforcement would find them. Was the name of the club just a trick, to lure him in there? He glanced at the open door, wondering if he should run immediately or first cause some kind of diversion to keep the police occupied while he fled.

No one seemed to be looking at him, though; the crowd's attention was fixed on the police officer. To Drag Strip's surprise, the man began to peel off his uniform jacket. He whirled it around his head a few times and flung it into the crowd.

A woman caught it and screamed for no reason that Drag Strip could see. _Maybe a button hit her in the eye_. But other customers were screaming as well, he noticed, or cheering just as loudly. The police officer wiggled his body, turned and repeated the bizarre movement.

None of the cops Drag Strip had engaged on the roads had ever done that, but then again, he couldn't remember any of them taking their clothes off either. _Is this what human law enforcement personnel do when they're off duty? _he wondered as the police officer whirled around a pole set in the middle of the stage. _How weird! I wish the others were here, they'll never believe this._

The police officer was soon down to his pants, which he apparently tore off. Drag Strip sneered. _Well, I guess people like that have enough money to buy a different pair of pants every day. _He watched in growing disdain as the cop strutted about the stage a little longer and then leaped down on to a step that put him a little closer to the crowd.

People surged forward, hooting and cheering, the spotlight tracking the movement. Curious despite himself, Drag Strip sidled closer to see what they were doing, trying to stay as inconspicuous as possible.

His mouth dropped open. They were stuffing money into the cop's underwear and the tops of his boots, which now sported a fringe of folded banknotes. _What the… why are they… _

The cop moved along the rows of tables and tipped his cap to a laughing knot of women – _he must've forgotten to take that off_, Drag Strip thought, still half in shock. Abruptly a new song started up on the huge speakers and another human sauntered out on to the stage. This time it was a cowboy with a huge Stetson hat and high-heeled boots that Drag Strip instantly wanted. The cowboy pivoted on one heel, pulling off his vest as he did so.

_So you just have to take off your clothes and dance? I could do that. Slag, I could do that better than—_

The cowboy pivoted again, and there was a faint but definite _snap_ that Drag Strip heard even over the music as the heel of one tall boot broke off and skittered across the stage. The cowboy, who had been turning as it happened, crashed down in an ungainly sprawl. His hat fell off.

There were a few startled giggles but the crowd was no longer cheering. When the cowboy struggled to a sitting position, grimacing and gripping one leg tightly, Drag Strip guessed why. In moments the music stopped. A woman appeared from the side of the stage and went to the cowboy, kneeling beside him and looking him over before she rose again.

"We're sorry about that, folks," she called out. "It'll just be a moment." Another man hurried to the stage and began to help the cowboy off of it.

_Just a moment_. Drag Strip pushed his way past the tables in as much time and sprang up on to the stage. He heard a few exclamations and shouts of "Hey, who's that?" but ignored them as he turned to face the crowd. The spotlight shone on him, dazzling.

"Start the music again!" he shouted.

Nothing happened. The crowd was oddly hushed as they stared at him and in that instant he knew how Breakdown might have felt under such scrutiny. It was one thing to have humans gaze in awe and admiration. It was another to be the subject of the puzzled, confused looks given to something that was unwanted and out of place.

Then, from the edge of his peripheral vision, he saw the woman on stage give a slight nod.

"_Haha_," a voice said from the speakers.

_Is someone laughing at me? _But then he realized it was part of the song, which seemed to begin with someone speaking.

"_Well now, we call this the act of mating._" Oh, so _that_ was what all this was about. _Not a problem. _He'd been irresistible as a Stunticon and he could be no less so as a human. From the corner of an optic he saw the woman slipping off the stage.

"_But there are several other very important differences between human beings and animals that you should know about_." And the drumbeat began.

Drag Strip rode it. He remembered the way the police officer had moved and did the same, but kept his hands in the pockets of his blazer as he swiveled his hips and rolled his shoulders. He was no longer tired, not with the spotlight on him, and his feet seemed to move independently of the rest of his body as he slid to the center of the stage. One hand shot out with his usual speed and grabbed the metal pole. He all but flew around it.

"_I'd appreciate your input_," the song whispered and people in the crowd began to clap. _Ah yes. That's more like it._

Drag Strip spun on his heel just as the cowboy had done – _only better! – _and ended up with his back to the crowd. He turned his head to one side so he could be sure they were still looking at him, now with growing fascination, as he nudged his blazer off in a series of rhythmic little shrugs. His pelvic unit moved in time to them.

When the blazer finally fell he hooked it with one finger and whirled it around his head. His bus fare flew out of the pockets and disappeared into the crowd, but he was enjoying himself too much to care. The people's attention was riveted on him and the music was like a road unrolling before him at delicious speed. For the first time since he had become a human he felt himself smile as he began to unbutton his shirt.

A woman close to the stage cheered, so Drag Strip bent his knees, sinking down as he continued to dance, and turned sideways as he gave her a broad grin. Any human who appreciated his physical perfection and liked his clothes was all right by him. He straightened up with the coiled energy of a spring being released and whipped the shirt off with a laugh.

People hooted and whistled, raising their hands to clap.

He pulled his belt off just as a man sitting at another table raised a glass to him, smiling widely. Drag Strip caught the tip of the belt in one hand and whacked the buckle against the stage so hard that he felt the vibration of the blow travel up his arm. The man looked as though he had choked on his drink, and everyone around him burst into applause.

"_Hieroglyphics, let me be Pacific, I want to be down in your South Seas_…"

Drag Strip twisted, then kicked high, getting the sole of one boot against the pole at just the right height for him to unzip it in a single smooth motion. It was off in the next moment and he repeated the process for the other boot.

"_So if I capsize on your thighs' high tide, B-5, you sunk my battleship_…"

He touched the zipper on his pants and people _shrieked_. "Off!" They nearly drowned out the music. "Off!"

Drag Strip raised his optic ridges as though considering the request; _maybe I will and maybe I won't_. But he was having far too much fun to stop. _Bet you lot don't even remember that stupid police officer now, do you?_

Trailing the tip of his tongue along his lower lip, he sank to one knee just so that he could see beyond the spotlight's glare. The eyes fixed on him and faces entranced, people yelling for more from him… it was better than a gulp of high-grade. Rising slowly, as sinuously as he could, he slid the zipper down and gave a sharp hard writhe of his hips.

If his skin had not been sweat-slick from the dancing and the excitement, it might not have worked, but the pants slid down. Screams filled the air.

Drag Strip stepped out of his pants and spun around so the crowd could admire him from the back, then raised his arms to his head, burying his fingers in his hair. _Got to do it better than the cop… and more_, he thought as he turned again.

His hands dropped to his underpants and slid them off.

There was a moment of stunned silence. Then the noise nearly deafened him.

* * *

"Have a seat," the manager said, closing the door of her office.

Drag Strip sat down. He had barely had enough time to put his pants back on – and he had remembered too late that without underpants or boots, where were the grateful and awestruck customers supposed to stuff money? But they had shoved plenty of banknotes into his hands nevertheless, and then two much larger men had showed up to tell him that the manager wanted to see him.

Drag Strip might have balked, but by then the next act was starting, so he went with them. One of the men carried the rest of his clothes into the manager's office, but he didn't trust anyone else to hold his money.

The manager was the woman who had spoken on stage after the cowboy's serendipitous and amusing accident, and now she sat down on the other side of a desk. "My name is Gaby Ortega."

"I'm Drag—" He stopped just in time. "Sid R. Pragt."

"Good to meet you, Mr. Pragt. Have you performed before?"

"No." Drag Strip grinned. "First time I ever did that." _And I beat all the human dancers at it! _The crowd certainly hadn't given the police officer a standing ovation.

"Well, we'd be interested in seeing you again." She smiled. "How would that work for you?"

Drag Strip couldn't believe it for a moment. He would get to do that again, to see new crowds cheering for him and begging for more? _Well, certainly, why not? I was the hit of the night, the star of the show_. And he would do even better next time. He was mentally planning what he would wear when he realized that Gaby Ortega was waiting for a reply.

"That would work fine," he said.

"That's great!" She produced some papers, and Drag Strip groaned inwardly; why did every human job have to involve filling out paperwork? "Oh, and there's just one more thing. You'll need to… tidy up a little before the next show."

Drag Strip frowned. He wasn't as neat as Dead End, but he was by no means a slob. "Tidy up?"

"Yes, you know." She waved a hand at him. "Wax."

"Wax? I don't have plat—" Primus, what was _wrong_ with him? He'd nearly given himself away again.

Gaby looked at him for a long considering moment before fishing in a drawer of her desk. "Here." She handed him a business card. "Go to this salon, tell them I sent you and ask for the full package, okay?"

Drag Strip took it, shrugging his assent. He had no objections to being pampered a little – _about time, really, after all the horrible experiences I've had lately_ – though he was surprised to hear humans used wax too. _Must tell Dead End after I get it done, he'll be so jealous_.

And after he had bought himself a meal he went home in a cab, the pockets of his yellow blazer stuffed with money. Perhaps being human wasn't so bad after all.

* * *

_Additional notes : The computer Breakdown needs is the Compaq Portable III, a precursor to the modern laptop - top-of-the-line in 1987 with a 20 MB hard drive. _

_Some reviewers have asked if Geri will be appearing in this fic; unfortunately the answer is no. "The Girl Who Loved Wildrider" was set in the year 2000, and at 11-going-on-12, Geri was just a gleam in her daddy's eye at the time this fic takes place. _

_Finally, for everyone who guessed which Stunticon gets involved with a human female, there'll be a hint in Chapter 10. The answer may surprise you._


	10. Keep on Truckin'

_Authors' note : Motormaster hits the road... and the road hits back. _

_– anon_decepticon and QoS/mdperera_

_Thanks also to Kookaburra 1701 for her support and input!

* * *

_

**Chapter 10 : Keep on Truckin'**

Motormaster didn't like it when his subordinates were late to get home.

Punctuality in and of itself wasn't important to him unless they were on a mission, but in their new human forms, he had no idea what might be happening when one of the team failed to show up. Without comms, they had no way to tell him whether they were just delayed by traffic (and wasn't that an irony?) or caught by law enforcement. There were public phones, of course, but the Stunticons couldn't afford the installation fees for a phone in their apartment.

Now, as it grew dark and Drag Strip still hadn't returned to their temporary base of operations, Motormaster sat in a chair pushed away from the table and tried to decide what to do. _Other than slagging some sense into Drag Strip when he finally shows up, that is. _He tried not to think of the possibility of Drag Strip not doing so.

No matter how badly his subordinates fragged up or how brutal their punishments were, there was an unspoken understanding in the team that if they were ever in real trouble, one comm to him was all they needed. Once he had been in a conference with Megatron when a distress signal had come in, and Megatron had had to wait until he was done. Which didn't please _him, _but that consequence was tolerable compared to the alternative. Nothing mattered as much to Motormaster as keeping his team together and intact (well, intact apart from whatever damage he inflicted on them).

So he sat and waited, not sure of the time because they still had no chronometer. The rest of the team had picked up on his mood fast and were staying well out of range, being as quiet as possible. From time to time Wildrider would glance at him or at the door, but Motormaster could tell that the other two were slapping a wheel clamp on anything he might have said. Which was a good thing, because he didn't know how long—

"Hey, open up," Drag Strip called from outside.

Motormaster shot a look at the other three and after a moment Breakdown got up and opened the door. Drag Strip sauntered in, grinning from audial to audial. He started to speak and then made eye contact with Motormaster.

The click of the door closing sounded very loud in the sudden silence. So did Breakdown's footsteps as he got out of the blast radius.

Motormaster rose, the legs of his chair scraping back. Drag Strip stood where he was, looking as though he had been welded to the floor.

"Where have you been?" Motormaster said in an almost conversational tone. He came around the table in a quiet deliberate tread.

"I—" was all Drag Strip had time to say before Motormaster's hand shot out and clamped down on his shoulder. One hard twist flung him down into a chair and he gasped from the impact.

Before he could recover, Motormaster grabbed a handful of yellow collar and twisted it tight around Drag Strip's neck. He pulled upwards at the same time, yanking Drag Strip's chin at an angle and forcing terrified hazel eyes to meet his own stare. Drag Strip's hands flew to his throat. Motormaster tightened the makeshift garotte even harder until Drag Strip stopped fighting, then let it relax a fraction.

"Well?" he said.

"Got – a – job," Drag Strip croaked.

That was unexpected. Motormaster loosened his grip just a little more.

"What kind of job?" he said.

"Kind that… pays." Somehow, Drag Strip's defiance always seemed to surface, even when he was choking for air. "Money…"

He shoved a hand into his blazer and came up with a bunch of banknotes.

Motormaster let him go entirely. The others pressed in for a closer look as Motormaster smoothed out the notes and began to make a pile of them. "How'd you get this?" he said, still looking narrowly at Drag Strip. "Most places close at the end of the day."

"Yeah, well, some don't," Drag Strip said, smoothing his collar back into place as best he could before rubbing at the marks on his neck. "There's a club downtown named after me, so I went in there and danced and they gave me this."

_Nearly a hundred dollars_. Motormaster didn't know what he found more implausible – that someone had named an establishment after Drag Strip (humans were dumb but not _that_ sycophantic) or that they had paid him so much to dance. _Is he that good a dancer? _Motormaster sniffed hard but he couldn't smell any high-grade fumes lingering in Drag Strip's vicinity.

"That doesn't make any sense." Evidently Breakdown found Drag Strip's claims as unbelievable as he did. "You have to pay to go into a club – they don't pay you."

Drag Strip got the cocky, I-know-something-you-don't look that never failed to irritate Motormaster. "They do if you take all your clothes off."

"You took your clothes off and got money?" Wildrider said. "Why didn't you have to return it when you put them back on again?"

Drag Strip looked at him for a blank moment, shook his head slightly and went on. "And they want me to come back! They love me. The manager said I was the best performer they'd ever had. She'd never seen anyone do it as spectacularly as I did."

"The spectacle part I can believe," Motormaster said. Now maybe they could afford for a phone line. Breakdown had been adamant that they needed one for the computer, to connect to the satellite network that would transmit their communication signals to the Decepticon base. "Where's the rest of it?"

"Rest of it?" Drag Strip said innocently.

Motormaster grabbed his wrist. He was becoming more accustomed to what he could do with his human body – how much pressure to apply to scare, to hurt and to _break_, in that order. His fingers clamped down like a vise.

"Something wrong with your audials?" he said. "Yeah. The rest of it."

Slowly Drag Strip dropped his free hand to his right boot and drew out a smaller, folded wad of notes. He dropped them on the table, his face set in sullen lines.

Motormaster released him. He felt sure that Drag Strip had another cache somewhere on him – _and I could probably find it, since we don't have subspace pockets any more_ – but he'd gotten enough for the phone line and a few other expenses, like their fuel for the immediate future. And Drag Strip had been reminded once again that his leader wasn't stupid.

"Good," he said, then peeled off three fives to hand to Dead End. "Go get us something to eat."

Wildrider sat down on the other side of the table, looking intrigued. "Hey, sunshine, if they pay people to dance and take their clothes off, could I do it?"

Motormaster was almost as surprised to hear sense from Wildrider as he had been to see Drag Strip's unexpected earnings. "Yeah, why not?" he said. _A little more like this and we could have a computer in a week's time. We could go back home before much longer! _"Drag Strip, tell this club there's more where you came from."

Drag Strip tensed at once. "They don't need any other performers," he said. "And besides, who else could do it but me? Dead End would just stand up there on the stage looking miserable and polishing himself, Wildrider'd get distracted by something shiny and Breakdown couldn't cope with one human staring at him, let alone a thousand."

Motormaster glared at him, aware that Drag Strip's answer came out of his usual unwillingness to share the glory with anyone else but also aware that his objections were true enough. None of the others were likely to enjoy dancing to entertain humans, drinking up the attention as though it were energon. Except perhaps for Wildrider and he would either get distracted or blow something up just for the fun of it.

Dead End returned with food and Motormaster said nothing more as he ate. But that night he lay in bed with one arm bent beneath his head, unable to sleep. He was used to recharging alone, but not to the slow sinking feeling that he wasn't able to provide what his team needed. Somehow Drag Strip's success had underlined that fact.

Motormaster didn't really expect his other subordinates to find similar well-paying jobs. Breakdown would be most valuable when they got the computer and he was able to tap into the base's comm system; he was hopeless when it came to dealing with humans directly. Unless there were job openings for insane terrorists, Wildrider wasn't wanted in a human society. And while he required a little more of Dead End, serving as a liaison between them and the humans was also useful.

_But what am _I_ doing? What _can_ I do?_

He forced himself to stop brooding and redoubled his efforts to find a job the next day. Thankfully Drag Strip's earnings meant a little extra money for more newspapers and even a cup of coffee, which Motormaster bought from a small deli nearby. He sat at the counter, going through the classifieds, and an ad leaped out at him.

"_CaliTrans Services. Position available : Company Driver"._ Below it was a picture of a cab (no trailer, though he supposed there wasn't enough room in the tiny square of paper to show that). Motormaster studied the picture for a long moment, thinking of how it would feel to dominate the highways again, plowing through everything in his path.

No, he couldn't do that; to keep the job he'd have to take orders from some worthless human and obey the law. Still, it would be worth it just to see the open road before him again, to smell diesel fumes and feel eighteen wheels respond to his will. He tore the ad out of the paper.

"Looking for a job?" someone said.

Motormaster glanced up. The woman who worked behind the counter was wiping it down with a cloth, and she smiled at him.

He didn't know why she was asking and it didn't matter anyway; getting to the trucking company before anyone else applied for the job was the most important thing. So he walked out, ad in hand, and made straight for the address listed on it.

The company's regional base of operations was within walking distance of their apartment, but when he got off the elevator and showed the ad to the receptionist, she asked if he had an appointment. Motormaster shook his head.

"I can handle a truck better than any hu—driver you'll ever hire," he told her flatly. "So if you've got a superior, tell 'em to see me." He leaned against the counter and waited.

The receptionist got up. "May I have your name, please?"

_What was that human name? Oh yes. _"Tomas Morter."

The receptionist went into a nearby room and shut the door behind her. That gave Motormaster a moment to think about actually operating such a truck—not just the wonderful sense of being behind a wheel again, feeling weight and power and speed at his command, but all the small details of driving that he had taken for granted in his alt-mode. When he'd thought of shifting gears, it had happened without further effort on his part, and he had never worried about collisions because he had always had a forcefield on his side.

None of that would apply in a human vehicle, but Motormaster decided he would cross that bridge when he came to it. He straightened up as the receptionist came back out.

"Mr MacCallum will see you now," she said, and held the door open for him.

_That's a good start_. _No waste-of-time appointments. _Motormaster strode in to the room and studied the thin, pale little human behind the desk. _I'd have to take orders from _this _sliver of slag? He looks like he'd fall over if I vented on him. Oh well, it'll just be until we have enough money to contact the base._ The human rose and held out a hand, so Motormaster gave him the torn-off ad and sat down.

The human did the same after a moment. "Could I see your resume?" he said.

_What's a resume? _Motormaster wondered. He had assumed that whoever was in charge at the trucking company would tell him to drive a cab so that they could observe his performance and then hire him.

"Resume?" he said.

"Curriculum vitae?" The human looked expectant.

Motormaster could understand most Earth languages—he had come online with them already programmed into his databanks—but whatever the human had just said was a mystery to him. He decided it was best to explain why he was there, in simple clear terms that the human could understand.

"I'm applying for the job driving a truck," he said, unable to keep an edge of disdain out of his voice.

The human raised one optic ridge. "Do you have any references?"

_References to what?_ None of that made sense, and this job interview wasn't going as Motormaster had pictured it at all. "What are references?"

The human studied him for a long moment. "Statements about your performance on the job from previous employers," he said finally.

_Oh. _Motormaster longed to say that his previous "employer", if he could be described as such, had been Megatron the Slag Maker, supreme commander of the Decepticons, and that any miserable humans should have been honored to have the leader of Megatron's elite gestalt working for them. Then he thought of security personnel swooping in from all sides and the Autobots running to the rescue.

"I haven't had any previous employers," he said.

The human's face wrinkled up a little, as though he smelled something strange. "Do you even have any experience at this kind of job?"

_Yes, you disgusting little fragger, I do,_ Motormaster thought, but he was so relieved he could answer something in the affirmative that he managed to control his temper . "I have extensive experience with a Kenworth K100 Aerodyne tractor-trailer. Any kind of weather, any kind of traffic conditions. I got the job done."

"Really." The human didn't look as though he was ready to hand the keys over just yet. "What did you transport?"

Motormaster hesitated, since he could hardly say "energon". "Fuel."

"Fuel?" The human frowned and Motormaster had a sudden feeling he had said the wrong thing. "You transported fuel in a K100? What kind of fuel?"

_Great_. Before he could think of what to say, the human went on. "I'm guessing you don't have a commercial driver's license either."

"No!" Motormaster's limited patience was at an end. "Just give me the fragging truck and I'll show you what I can do."

The human blinked rapidly and for the first time seemed to look properly cowed. "All right," he said. "Sure, Mr. Morter, we can do that." He got up.

Motormaster did the same, pleased that the nonsense was over with and he could finally get behind the wheel. _Have to be tough with them,_ _otherwise they think they can frag around with you_. The human held the office door open for him and Motormaster all but swaggered out.

"The trucks are right outside," the human said. "This way, please." He led the way to the elevator and when they reached the lobby, he showed Motormaster to a side entrance and held the door open again, politely. "After you."

Motormaster stepped outside. The bright sunlight dazzled him for a moment, but he could still see the parking lot outside – a lot half-filled with cars, and not a truck in sight. _Where are—_

The door closed behind him.

Motormaster turned. The human was nowhere in sight, and he reached reflexively for a handle before he realized there was none—the door had never been intended to be opened from the outside.

He stood alone in the parking lot for a long blank moment, struggling to control the humiliation and fury boiling up within him. If he had heard laughter or mocking comments from inside he would have lost the fight and started smashing the door down (though he wasn't sure how, without a weapon). But after a drawn-out silence where nothing happened, he slowly turned on his heel and left the parking lot.

He memorized the address first, though, because when he got his real frame back, he planned to raze that building to the ground and drive repeatedly over the remains.

Not knowing what else to do, he started back home, though when he saw the deli he found himself heading in that direction instead. Anything to put off the moment when he would have to walk back into their apartment and be asked how his job hunt had gone. He felt in his pocket as he headed for the entrance to the deli, hoping he would have enough for a coffee, but all he could find were two coins. _Well, that'd better be enough_, he thought as he pushed open the door and strode in.

There was only one customer standing at the counter, a human wearing an odd, tight-fitting mask that covered his head but left his eyes and mouth exposed. He twisted around and Motormaster saw the barrel of a long gun point at him.

He stopped in his tracks, nearly knocking over a mop that had been left leaning against the counter. The gun was six feet away—he couldn't grab it and he couldn't charge without being shot.

_I could use a forcefield right now, _he thought.

"Don't move!" the man snapped. Motormaster flicked a look at the woman behind the counter, wondering if she was planning to do anything, but she was busy fumbling with the cash register. Blood trickled slowly down her face from an ugly cut that ran the length of her cheekbone.

The cash register made a _ching_ sound as it sprang open.

"Get it all in a bag, bitch!" The robber never looked away from Motormaster, evidently aware he was the greater threat.

_Stupid little human_, Motormaster thought without amusement, _you have no idea you're up against the leader of the Stunticons, the King of the Road. But you're about to find out._

He raised one hand slowly, palm outward to show that he wasn't carrying any weapons. "Take it easy," he said, and with his other hand – hanging unnoticed by his side – he flicked a coin sideways in a sharp snap of his fingers. The coin flew across the other half of the deli and clinked against the restroom door.

Instinctively the robber turned towards the sound. Motormaster grabbed the mop beside him and brought it up in one swift strike even as the robber realized he had been tricked. As he fired from the hip, the mop's head hit the gun's barrel with all of Motormaster's brutal strength behind it. The blow knocked the barrel upwards and the shotgun's blast went over Motormaster's head, shattering part of the ceiling.

Before the robber could fire again, Motormaster flung himself at the man's legs. He barely heard the shotgun roar again – his ears were still ringing from the first blast – but since he was at floor level it missed him again. In the next moment he crashed into the robber and they went down together.

Motormaster closed one fist around the shotgun barrel, ignoring the heat, and wrenched it out of the robber's hands. He flung it aside and drove his other fist into the man's face. Bone crunched with the impact. With a soft grunt of effort, he surged to his feet, hauling the robber's sagging form up with him. Grabbing the back of the man's hooded jacket, he rammed him head-first into the side of the counter.

The robber went completely strutless, so Motormaster did it again. He felt strong for the first time that day, in control and in his element. He pivoted on one heel, getting a good grip on the man's belt, then twisted around to put his whole frame behind the throw. The robber's limp body sailed through the air, struck the door head-first and thudded to the ground, half in and half out of the deli.

Motormaster wiped his hands off with some satisfaction and bent to retrieve the shotgun. That was when the afterechoes in his ears died down and he realized that the woman was on the phone.

"…at the corner of 8th and Natoma," she said. "Yes, attempted robbery. But he's, uh…"

Before she could go on, Motormaster leaned over the counter, plucked the phone from her hand and slammed it down. She flinched and brought her hands up.

_Gotta leave before the cops gets here. Good thing she doesn't know my name. _"You never saw me before, got it?" he told her. "You have no idea what I look like or where I went."

She nodded rapidly. Motormaster straightened up again, thinking that it was nice to have humans obeying without question.

"And I'll take a large coffee," he said, suddenly remembering why he had come into the shop in the first place. "Black. One sugar."

"S-sure." She fixed it quickly and handed him the cup. "No charge."

Well, that was good too. Tucking the shotgun against the length of his body where it would be less visible to a casual observer, Motormaster took his coffee and started out.

"Wait," the woman called. He stopped and turned. "You – you drop in any time if you'd like another cup. On the house."

_Free coffee. Not bad, not bad at all._ Motormaster gave her a curt nod and walked out, stepping over the robber's body. In a few minutes he was back at their apartment and let himself in. Wildrider and Breakdown were playing cards at the table, though from the smell in the kitchen they had started cooking something for lunch, and Motormaster didn't feel like growling at them for wasting time.

"Hey boss," Wildrider said. "Didja get a job?"

Motormaster shut the door. "No. But I got a gun." He displayed it, pleased at the size and the explosive power. "And free coffee."

"Works for me," Breakdown said, and dealt the cards.


	11. Rat Race

_Authors' note: Breakdown emerges from hiding to seek gainful employment. It doesn't go very well, but fortunately Wildrider is there to cheer him up. (Warning for mildly explicit smut.)_

_Note: This chapter takes place on the same day as the previous one. When the cat's away…_

– _anon_decepticon and QoS/mdperera_

_Thanks also to Kookaburra 1701 for her support and input!_

* * *

**Chapter 11 : Rat Race**

Breakdown scoped the warehouse out from a safe distance. No obvious weak spots or entry points, so it would be relatively easy to defend from within. Wildrider had told him that the people who owned it were looking for a night watchman – he had considered trying for the job himself, but decided it would be too boring being there all alone all night.

To Breakdown, it sounded like his dream job. He no longer felt as though every human in the vicinity was staring at him, but he still didn't like being looked at. That ruled him out for most jobs, and if not for Motormaster's orders and threats he would have stayed in their new base of operations, maintaining it as best he could and waiting for the other Stunticons to save enough to buy a computer.

On the other hand, he didn't mind being paid to wait in a warehouse all night, so after he had scouted the exterior of the huge building and made a mental note of everything he saw, he headed for the small office at the front. With their new phone installed he had been able to call ahead, and a man came out of the office to meet him.

"Mr. Krowen?" He held out a hand. "Great to meet you! I'm Les Hanson."

Breakdown shook the extended hand as firmly and confidently as he could. He had spent the past day in the library, reading a book called _How to Get Any Job You Want_ – one consequence of being human, he had realized, was that he had to actively memorize things to get them into his databanks. He had spent hours with the book, rehearsing all the possible questions an interviewer might ask him and what the best answers were to give.

"Come in, come in, take a seat." Hanson hurried into a small room, sweeping a stack of clipboards off a chair and pushing it in front of a desk. He was so bustling and jovial that he seemed to occupy far more space in the room than he actually took up. Breakdown eased himself into the chair and sat straight-backed, hands clasped on his knees.

"So we need someone to keep an eye on the place at night." Hanson sat down on the edge of his desk. "You got any experience in that line of work, Mr. Krowen?"

Breakdown nodded, struggling to meet the human's eyes. "I used to work for a private company which provided such security measures." He reached into a pocket and took out a folded paper. "Here's a referee from my former supervisor."

Hanson looked puzzled, but took the paper and unfolded it. "Oh, a reference. Good, good. So, did you like working with this Mr. Morter?"

"Y-yes." Breakdown wondered whether to look back into just one of the human's eyes or both of them. _It's all right, he can't tell who you are, just keep going! _"He taught me to stay focused on my work and follow instructions."

"Strict kinda guy?"

The book had mentioned that it was important not to criticize former employers. "A little. But it's important to have a chin of command."

"A what?"

Breakdown wondered what he had said wrong. "I mean, you need to know whose odors to follow, who's in charge."

"I… see," Hanson said. "What kinda education have you got, Mr. Krowen?"

"I speak several languages," Breakdown said, still wishing that the human would look at Motormaster's letter, at the floor, anywhere but at him. His skin was starting to feel damp. "English, Chinese and Spinach, for a start. I don't have a formal education, but I'm well-read."

Hanson frowned and Breakdown knew at once he had done it again, but he wasn't sure which word he'd said wrong. Just enduring the man's stare was difficult enough, and the harder he tried to stare back – _make eye contract, that's important to humans!_ – the less he could concentrate on his speech. _Should I repeat what I said or pretend it didn't happen? Should I say I'm sorry?_

Before he could decide, Hanson said, "So you never went to school or anything?"

"No, but I'm illustrious... I mean, I work really hard." Breakdown knew he was making more mistakes, but he was so desperate that he didn't seem to be able to stop. It felt like driving with his brake lines cut. All the while Hanson's eyes bored into him like lasers, hot and penetrating, and his skin all but dripped in response. "If you give me a chance, I won't let you drown."

"Huh?" Hanson shook his head. "Never mind. Thanks for your application, Mr. Krowen. We'll contact you if we want to follow up, all right?"

Breakdown stood, torn between relief that the human was no longer staring at him and a heavy, miserable feeling that he had messed up. As if observing the scene from a short distance, he heard himself mumble a few words of thanks – _probably fragging that up as well,_ he thought. He couldn't get out quickly enough.

Except he felt no better outside. It was midday by then and the streets were crowded. An accident had just occurred on the road he had taken to the warehouse and the police had closed off the intersection, so Breakdown found himself funneled into a narrower street along with what felt like hundreds of people all hurrying in one way or another. He got on to the sidewalk so that the buildings were on one side of him. After the disastrous interview he didn't want anyone looking at him, much less touching him, and yet there were people _everywhere_–

He gave up and sank down on to a step. It was a little cooler there with the door's awning casting a bit of shade over him, and he hunched his shoulders, staring down at his feet. Once the lunch hour was over and the crowd thinned out, he would go home. The spot he had picked was littered – there were cigarette butts and an empty coffee cup near him – but he didn't care as long as no one was staring at him.

A flicker of movement nearby made him start. Someone had tossed a coin at him and it landed in the coffee cup at his side, making the cup wobble. Breakdown hunched a little more, drawing his knees close to his chest and hoping people wouldn't throw anything else at him. _Just ignore me, I'm not here. Just please go about your work. _

A quarter clinked into the cup. Breakdown was so startled he raised his head and looked into the cup. There was enough money in it for a phone call, but he didn't understand why people were—

Another coin landed in the cup but when he dared to glance up, no one was actually looking at him. Some fumbled in pockets or purses as they passed by, but they didn't stare at him – in fact, they seemed to deliberately avoid looking at him.

"Thank you," he muttered, not knowing what else to say. By the time the lunch hour ended, he had almost five dollars in change, though it didn't exactly make up for the interview – certainly Motormaster was unlikely to accept five dollars as an acceptable substitute for a job. But at least he didn't have to go back to their base empty-handed.

* * *

Breakdown vented a sigh of relief when he finally reached the door to their apartment and gave it a tentative knock. The only other Stunticon likely to be home this early was Drag Strip, but after everything he'd been through today, the prospect of spending the rest of the afternoon with Drag Strip was almost appealing. At least Drag Strip wouldn't stare at him – he'd be too busy preening in preparation for his new job.

To his surprise, it was Wildrider who opened the door. "Hey," he said. "You're just in time. I made sandwiches."

Breakdown came in and shut the door behind him, trying to decide if he was hungry or not. It had been easy to tell as a mech; if he needed to refuel, a warning would pop up in his HUD. Their human bodies had low fuel warnings too, they'd discovered – warnings that cropped up with alarming frequency – but they were nowhere near as explicit.

"I don't think I'm hungry," he said, staring down at the sandwich Wildrider shoved into his hands.

"Don't worry, they're not made of fingers," Wildrider said. "Or knuckles."

"Huh?"

"Humans put body parts in sandwiches sometimes," Wildrider said. "But I just used cheese."

"Distrusting," he said, eyeing the sandwich. "I mean the body parts, not the cheese." He took a cautious bite. It tasted okay, so he took another. "Where are the others?" he asked between swallows.

"Dunno," Wildrider said around a mouthful of sandwich. "Out looking for jobs, I guess. Drag Strip said something about getting a wax."

Breakdown frowned. "Humans don't use wax. They don't have plating."

Wildrider snorted. "Tell that to him."

"How come you're home so early? You couldn't find a job either?"

"I did find one," Wildrider said. "And I did it perfectly, too! But then they got mad and told me to leave. Can you believe that? Humans are weird."

"Yeah," Breakdown said quietly, putting down his half-eaten sandwich. Suddenly he didn't want it anymore. "I think I'm gonna go lie down."

He peeled off his clothes and lay down on the mattress, venting another sigh. Drag Strip and Wildrider had both found jobs – what if Motormaster and Dead End did too? Would he be the only one left who hadn't? Mr. Hanson had said he would call, but Wildrider hadn't mentioned the phone ringing.

He was about to get up and ask when Wildrider came in. "Are you gonna recharge now?" he asked.

Breakdown shook his head; he didn't feel like recharging any more than he felt like eating. "Did anyone call today while I was gone?"

"Nope." Wildrider flopped down on the bed beside him. "Why?"

"No reason," he said, rolling over onto his side. "I just wondered."

"I'm bored," Wildrider said after a moment. "Wish we had a TV."

"You could play cards." He gestured towards the clothes he'd left on the floor. "I bought some on my way home today. They're in my pocket."

"Cool," Wildrider said happily. "You wanna play?"

"Not really," he said, staring at the wall.

Wildrider studied him for a moment. "You wanna 'face?"

Breakdown sat up, turning around to look at him. "Are you trying to be funny?"

"No, I'm serious," Wildrider said. "You want to?"

"And how are we supposed to do that?" he asked. "We're human now, remember? Humans don't interface."

"Sure they do," Wildrider argued. "They do it all the time on TV! Movies, too."

"How?" he asked, mystified.

"It's easy – first they turn off the lights and take off all their clothes, then they get into bed, get under the sheets and do it."

Breakdown looked around. "Well, the lights are off," he said. "But you still have your clothes on, and we don't have any sheets."

Wildrider sat up and began removing his clothes, tossing them onto the floor. "Clothes are weird," he said. "Like, you have to wear them or people will stare at you, but when Drag Strip takes his off, people give him money! And you have to take 'em off to 'face, too."

"And to wash," Breakdown said.

"Yeah," Wildrider agreed. "They just get in the way!"

"I guess humans need them to keep warm. Maybe that's what the sheets are for?"

"Well, I'm not cold," Wildrider said, snuggling up to him. "Are you?"

"No," he said. Having Wildrider pressed against him was strangely soothing, not to mention warm. "You really want to 'face?"

"Sure," Wildrider said. "Don't you? It's been ages since last time."

"I guess." It _had_ been a while. "But I don't have wheels or a spoiler anymore."

Wildrider frowned, looking thoughtful. After a moment he reached up and took hold of Breakdown's shoulder, rubbing and squeezing, trailing his thumb over the curve of fleshy muscle where Breakdown's rims used to be. "How does that feel?"

Breakdown's wheel rims had been one of his most sensitive hot spots. Wildrider's touch didn't elicit the same strut-melting wave of pleasure it should have, but some part of him still expected it to, and the memory stirred the faintest flicker of arousal. "Good, I guess," he said uncertainly. "Not 'facing good, but it's kinda nice."

Wildrider leaned into him, putting more of his weight onto Breakdown's chestplate as he stretched down to stroke the back of Breakdown's leg where his rear wheel had been. "What about here?" he grunted, squeezing firmly.

"Uh-uh. Sorry."

Wildrider huffed, straightening up again and settling more decisively on top of him. He reached over Breakdown's shoulder, groping for a spoiler that was no longer there. "How 'bout here?" he asked, his voice muffled because his face was buried in Breakdown's neck.

The warm puff of air that accompanied the words made Breakdown squirm, tickling over his skin. "N-no," he giggled. Wildrider's frustrated determination was amusing, and he was sort of enjoying the attention. "Not there, either."

Wildrider bit his neck in retribution and Breakdown gasped. The mild nip hadn't hurt exactly, but it sent a flare of sensation through him, a feeling that was at once both strange and familiar.

"Do that again," he said.

Wildrider complied, giving up on trying to stimulate his nonexistent spoiler in favor of pawing at his front as he nibbled along Breakdown's neck cables. When his fingertips brushed over one of the knobs on Breakdown's chestplate, Breakdown gasped again, arching into the touch.

Wildrider was quick to catch on; both hands immediately reached for the knobs, rubbing and kneading them between his fingers. Breakdown's ventilations quickened, and if he'd had an engine it would have been revving. But after a moment Wildrider stopped and sat up.

"What?" Breakdown said. "I think that was working."

"Look, they're sticking out now," Wildrider said, drawing Breakdown's attention to his chest. The knobs were flushed a deep pink, and they _did_ look more prominent than before. "Maybe they're supposed to plug into something?"

"Where?"

"What about here?" Wildrider said, poking at the shallow port in his abdomen.

"There's two of them," he pointed out. "And anyway, they're too small."

Wildrider frowned thoughtfully for a moment, then shrugged. "Never mind, I'll just use my mouth."

Breakdown didn't object as Wildrider leaned over him again. His skin felt hot, the way his plating would have under similar circumstances. When Wildrider's mouth, warm and wet, closed over the nearer of the two knobs, a jolt of pleasure shot through his frame like an electric current.

The current seemed to burn through unseen wires, running in a hot line directly to his groin, and Breakdown felt an odd tightening sensation as the skin there pulled taut. Wildrider turned his attention to the other knob, setting off another surge of pleasure, and Breakdown moaned, arching beneath him, reaching up to tease Wildrider's helm spikes only to find that they weren't there.

He dropped his hands to Wildrider's shoulders as Wildrider moved down his body, but Wildrider's wheels were gone, too. Nevertheless he gripped them tighter when Wildrider ran his glossa over his abdominal ridges like they were the slats of his grille, making his hips jerk reflexively. He felt a strange shifting sensation in his groin.

"Oh," he said, looking down. "It's doing it again."

Wildrider glanced down as well. That odd bit of kibble was standing upright, the way it often did when they woke from recharge. It had happened to all of them at least once since they became humans, and they'd been thoroughly bewildered until Wildrider discovered that flushing his radiator caused it to revert to its previous state.

"You have to go _now?_" Wildrider asked incredulously.

"…I don't think so," Breakdown said. "It feels…different."

"Different how?"

"Like, um – oh!" he gasped as Wildrider carefully wrapped a hand around it. "I – I think it's a hot spot."

"Really? So this feels good?" Wildrider said, giving it an experimental squeeze.

Breakdown's vents hitched sharply at the intense burst of sensation. "Definitely good," he said.

"Weird," Wildrider said, sitting up. "Try touching mine."

Breakdown did, at first tracing it with a cautious fingertip, then growing bolder when Wildrider didn't protest. The skin was very soft, and seemed most sensitive at the tip. After a few minutes of experimentation, Wildrider's kibble was soon extended as well.

"I wonder why it stands up like that," he said.

"I dunno. I never saw anything like this on TV. Stupid sheets."

"It kinda looks like a joystick," he said, gripping it firmly and pressing his thumb where the firing button would have been.

"Ooh, you're winnin' the game right there, Breaks," Wildrider said.

The next thing Breakdown knew, Wildrider was seated astride him, rocking his hips into his hand and venting hard. "Wow, this thing has so many uses!" Wildrider said, reaching down to stroke and fondle him in return. "Hey – maybe this is its alt mode!"

"Do you think – it does anything else?" Breakdown panted, trying to catch his breath.

"I dunno," Wildrider said, "But I think I'm gonna –" He broke off with a gasp, his entire frame shuddering. Breakdown's hand tightened reflexively, and the kibble twitched in his grip, a strange pale fluid spurting out onto his hand.

Breakdown froze, his optics widening in alarm. "Did I break it? It's gone all floopy."

Wildrider collapsed atop him bonelessly and breathed a contented sigh. "If you did, you can break me anytime. I think I just overloaded."

"It didn't hurt?"

Wildrider gave him a broad, lazy smile. "Oh, it hurt so good."

Breakdown thought about that for a moment. "I wanna try."

Wildrider laughed. "All _right!_ My turn to play with the joystick – think I can get a high score?"


	12. Pounding the Pavement

_Authors' note: Dead End finally breaks down (ha) and joins the job hunt. Obviously it's a completely pointless endeavor since they're all going to die anyway, but Motormaster insisted. (Warning for mild smut.)_

– _anon_decepticon and QoS/mdperera_

_Thanks also to Kookaburra 1701 for her support and input!_

* * *

**Chapter 12 : Pounding the Pavement**

_Seek human employment_, Motormaster had said.

He hadn't used those exact words, of course – Motormaster's favored mode of expression was characteristically blunt and often profane – but those were his orders nonetheless. Find a job. Earn money. Make yourself useful.

_Or else_.

Dead End had put it off for as long as he dared. He spent the first day cleaning their temporary base from top to bottom, excising every last speck of dirt and grime. On the second day he'd gone to the library with the others, reasoning that it was better to be well-informed than risk making easily avoidable mistakes out of ignorance. On the third day he'd gone out and explored their new neighborhood, forging a mental map of the area to facilitate future navigation.

But when Drag Strip managed to find a job and even Breakdown scheduled an interview in the hope of doing the same, Dead End realized he couldn't put it off any longer. So here he was, sitting at a table in the deli not far from their apartment with a cup of coffee and a fresh newspaper, perusing the want ads and considering his options. He didn't want to work in a place that wasn't clean, or perform tasks that were repetitive or demeaning. That alone limited his options significantly.

Many of the jobs listed in the paper were frustratingly vague. _Administrative Assistant. Project Manager. Supervising Technician._ Few provided any meaningful details about what the job would require him to do, or what kind of environment he'd be expected to do it in. Most of the ones he _did_ understand were those he'd prefer to avoid, jobs that involved looking after animals or human offspring (both of which amounted to the same thing, in Dead End's opinion.)

He was nearly to the point of simply choosing a job at random when he spied the ad seeking assistance in an establishment that specialized in the repair and detailing of foreign automobiles.

He allowed himself to ponder that for a moment, recalling the sweet scent of carnauba wax and leather upholstery, the sensation of a soft cloth gliding across gleaming metal, and sighed wistfully.

"Can I get you anything else?"

Dead End looked up. The human female who had brought him his coffee was standing next to his table. He shook his head. "No, thank you."

"Looking for a job?" she asked, nodding toward the paper.

"No," he said, rising and delving into his pocket for money to settle the bill. "I've just found one."

* * *

"Thanks for stopping by, Mr. – what did you say your name was?"

"Dan Deed," Dead End replied.

It was clearly fate that he'd found that ad in the paper. The establishment he'd sought out was clean and well maintained, and the human who'd agreed to speak with him when he asked about the job appeared equally well-groomed, if casually dressed. Dead End approved.

"Ted Rucinski," the human said, extending a hand. Dead End shook it – the books in the library had stressed the importance of a firm handshake – and met his gaze squarely. "So you're interested in the position we advertised in the _Chronicle_?"

"I am," he said.

"You a mechanic?" Ted asked. "All our mechanics are certified with one or more of the makes of cars we service – BMW, Audi, Porsche –"

"No," he said. "My expertise lies in the area of automotive detailing. There isn't a shampoo, wax or polish on this planet I haven't tried."

Ted's eyebrow rose. "Which one's your favorite?"

"Pinnacle Liquid Souveran Wax," he replied. "If I were a car, I would use it on myself."

Ted grinned. "And how would you apply it?"

"With a foam applicator, immediately following a rinse," he said. "I find applying it wet leaves a deeper shine."

Ted looked impressed. "You know your stuff. When can you start?"

A hint of a smile tugged at Dead End's lip components. "If you wish, I can start immediately."

"Excellent!" Ted said. "Step into my office and we'll get you started on the paperwork. Just need to fill out a few forms and give us a copy of your Social Security card for the IRS, and you'll be all set."

Dead End's face fell. "Ah," he said.

The human had turned away to lead him to the aforementioned office, but now he turned back to give him a puzzled look. "Something wrong?"

Dead End hesitated. "I don't have a Social Security card."

Ted blinked. "Oh," he said. "Well, that's…gonna be a problem."

* * *

"So have you ever worked in retail before?"

The human female who'd greeted his inquiry had introduced herself as Amy Hsu, favoring him with a smile that bordered on predatory. She was elaborately coiffed but aggressively cheerful, and Dead End took an instant dislike to her.

"No," he replied. "But I am interested in clothing."

Amy's brilliant smile vanished. "Oh. You're one of them, huh?" She sighed, making a moue of disappointment. "Figures."

Dead End frowned. Had she somehow sensed he wasn't human? "Is that a problem?"

"Not for the job," she replied in a bored tone. "You can fill out an application at the register while I photocopy your ID. Someone will call you for an interview in a couple of days."

"ID?"

"Yeah, you know – driver's license, passport; any kind of identification that has a photo on it."

"Ah."

* * *

His next stop was a high-end eating establishment. With the exception of coffee, Dead End hadn't particularly enjoyed any of the various forms of sustenance the humans considered fuel, but he thought he could tolerate serving it to others. The environment suited him, at least – crisp white tablecloths, utensils that shimmered like polished chrome – so he went inside.

They asked for references. He didn't have any.

_This is becoming irritating, _he thought as he left_. _He could have performed that job with ease. He could have performed any of the jobs he'd sought today with minimal difficulty, but each time he'd been denied on a mere technicality. If the same was true of _every_ human occupation, this entire endeavor was nothing but a waste of time.

_Drag Strip found a job_, he reminded himself.

That was both comforting and annoying. Drag Strip had been insufferably smug ever since he'd returned to the base with news of his success, but at least he'd proven it could be done. Clearly there were _some_ humans who would be willing to overlook Dead End's lack of documentation. He just had to find one.

_It's not pointless_, he thought, suppressing the urge to simply turn around and return home. Never mind that precious seconds of his now-agonizingly-ephemeral lifespan were ticking away too swiftly to count. Death was inevitable and always had been.

But he didn't want to die as a _human. _He checked the paper again. He'd already exhausted every job on his short list of semi-desirable options; all that remained now were the ones that had been too nonspecific to make a determination, and those he was certain he didn't want.

Venting a resigned sigh, he began taking note of any job within the former group that was located in close proximity to his current position and plotted out a circular search pattern. He'd just have to try them all.

* * *

By late afternoon, Dead End was ready to give up.

Everywhere he'd gone had been the same. He'd inquire about a job, and be asked to provide something he didn't have. On a few occasions, he was told the job had already been filled. Only one remained that he hadn't tried, excluding those he'd eliminated as undesirable – an ad seeking something called a "_Customer Care Specialist_."

The daylight hours in which the humans conducted business were nearly spent, and his fuel tank was protesting its neglect. He was tired and his feet ached. His appearance was also suffering. He'd spent a considerable amount of time bathing and grooming that morning, but over the course of the day his efforts had begun to deteriorate. When he'd left the apartment his hair had been combed back neatly from his forehead, but now the deep burgundy strands were falling in his eyes.

_All right_, he thought. _Just one more_.

He pushed his hair out of his eyes, adjusted the collar of his shirt, and entered the final building.

"May I help you?"

Dead End glanced around, taking in the features of the small yet tidy office suite before returning his attention to the human female seated behind the reception desk. "I'm here to inquire about the job," he said.

"Do you have an appointment?" she asked.

"No," he said wearily. It hadn't occurred to him that he might need to call first. Perhaps he should have gone home after all.

The woman frowned at his defeated tone. Recalling abruptly that the books in the library had insisted a positive attitude was the key to success, Dead End forced his lip components to contort themselves into what he hoped was an engaging smile. It made his face hurt.

Based on her reaction, it must have looked more like a grimace of pain. "I guess I could ask Mr. Adams if he'd mind seeing you without one," she offered hesitantly.

"Thank you," he said, allowing his features to fall back into a more normal configuration.

He waited while she made the call, trying not to dwell on the sheer futility of it all. After a moment she hung up the phone and addressed him again. "You can go on in; it's just through there."

Dead End nodded soberly and proceeded through the door she'd indicated, feeling like he was attending his own execution.

"Good afternoon," the human said, rising from his seat behind a large desk and extending a hand, smiling broadly. "I'm Mr. Adams."

"De – Dan Deed," he replied, shaking the proffered hand.

"Have a seat, Mr. Deed," Mr. Adams said, gesturing towards a chair set in front of the desk. "I understand you're interested in the customer service position."

"That is correct," he said, sitting down. It was a relief to get off his feet. He thought longingly of his room back on the _Victory, _his berth, his polish –

"Do you have any experience working in customer service?"

"No," he replied. The human opened his mouth to ask another question, but Dead End interrupted before he could speak. "Is all this really necessary?" he asked.

Mr. Adams blinked in surprise. "Excuse me?"

"I don't have a resume," he said. "I have no references, no formal education, and no ID. I will, however, arrive on time each day and perform whatever duties you see fit to assign me. Is that not the entire purpose of this endeavor?"

The human looked nonplussed. "Well…I suppose we could skip straight to the test script."

Dead End's relief at not being immediately dismissed was somewhat mitigated by the use of the word "test." "What must I do to pass?" he asked.

"It's not that kind of test," Mr. Adams said with a smile. "It's more like a role-playing activity. Much of the job involves taking calls and logging complaints, and the test script is designed to give us an idea of how you'd handle a typical call. I play the role of the customer, and you do your best to address my complaint."

"I see," he said. "I am ready. Please begin."

Mr. Adams picked up the handset of the phone and held it to his ear, but didn't dial a number. "Hello," he said. "I'm having a problem with my microwave. It's not working right, and I only bought it a week ago!"

"Perhaps it's broken," he said.

"I know it's broken, that's why I'm calling you! I want a replacement."

"Why?" Dead End asked. "It'll just break again. Every machine breaks down eventually."

"It's still under warranty!"

"Perhaps it is, but you are not," he said. "The human body is nothing more than an organic machine, one with a very limited shelf life. You are dying even as we speak. You might have only days left to live. Shouldn't you be doing something more important than talking to me?"

Mr. Adams stared at him for a long moment, then carefully hung up the phone. "Well," he said with an awkward laugh, "I don't know about customer service, but you'd be a big hit in our accounting department."

Dead End arched an eyebrow. "Are they hiring?"

* * *

Dead End left the office building and started down the sidewalk, his helm bowed, his hands sunk deep in his pockets. The streets were crowded with the early evening rush, but the press of human bodies surrounding him barely registered on his awareness. He felt drained and disheveled, weary to the core. He could feel himself withdrawing, beginning to shut down, but he couldn't muster the energy to care.

Drag Strip's success had obviously been nothing but a lucky glitch, the exception that proved the rule. Even if the others imitated him exactly, they were doomed to fail. Dead End's own lack of success was proof of that. Lightning didn't strike twice.

Perhaps there was a small, faint hope that the money Drag Strip brought home would be enough to sustain them all, but the odds of having enough left over to obtain a computer were slim. Any amount they managed to save would be so incremental it would take months or even years before they accumulated enough. They'd rust first.

These human bodies were nothing more than a prison, and they'd all been given a life sentence.

He was so preoccupied with his thoughts he inadvertently collided with another human heading in the opposite direction. Glancing up, he dimly registered that the human was female, her pale cheeks flushed with embarrassment.

"Sorry," she said as their optics met. "I wasn't watching where I was going."

"Nor I," he replied.

She smiled at that, ducking her head shyly, but Dead End was no longer looking at her. Something far more interesting had captured his attention.

"Please excuse me," he said, overriding her attempt to say something more. She stared at him as he brushed past her, stepping off the sidewalk and into the decorated parking lot to his right.

It was parked in the second row, black and shimmering in the late afternoon sunlight.

A Porsche 928.

He approached it as if hypnotized, reaching out to trail his fingertips over the sun-warmed metal. His chest felt tight, gripped by a pang of loss and longing, a sweet, agonizing ache.

"Beautiful, isn't it?" a voice said from behind him. "Nothing like a Porsche."

Dead End didn't look up. He couldn't have torn his optics away if he'd tried. "Indeed."

"Handles like a dream," the man said, moving up to stand beside him. "Smooth, fast, perfectly balanced –"

"Yes," he agreed. "It does."

"Oh, so you've driven one before?"

"Less than a week ago," he replied. He traced the line of the hood slowly, reverently. "It feels like longer."

There was a brief, puzzled silence. "Well, this here is the latest model, fully loaded," the man said, producing a set of keys and unlocking the driver's side door. "Hop on in; I'll walk you through the features."

Dead End considered for a moment, then complied. He didn't need to look at the sticker taped to the Porsche's window to know the handful of change in his pocket would be woefully insufficient to purchase any car, let alone _this_ one, but he couldn't bring himself to refuse.

He slid into the driver's seat while the salesman scurried around to the passenger side and climbed in. The leather sighed as he took his place behind the wheel, the familiar scent wafting up to tease his sensors. Dead End offlined his optics and breathed it in, savoring it.

"…all leather interior, power steering, power locks, sunroof," the salesman rambled. "ABS brakes, limited slip differential, forged alloy wheels…"

Dead End ignored him, onlining his optics and reaching up to run his hands over the steering wheel, feeling the perforated leather slide beneath his fingertips. _No combat radar,_ he thought. _No force field._ The speedometer was analog instead of digital, and there was a Porsche emblem on the steering wheel where his Decepticon insignia had been, but none of that mattered. It felt like coming home.

"Feels great, doesn't it?" the salesman asked with a smile.

"Incomparable," he replied.

His grip on the wheel tightened, a curious obstruction rising up to lodge in his throat. He leaned forward, bowing his helm to rest his forehead on the graceful curve of the steering wheel. He thought of racing down the open highways, the steady thrum of a high-performance engine, the sensation smooth asphalt unfolding beneath his tires as he chased the sunrise. _Will I ever feel that way again?_

"So, uh…did you want to take it for a test drive?"

Dead End raised his helm reluctantly. "No," he said. The ache in his chest had become too much to bear. "That won't be necessary."

Opening the door, he exited the Porsche, leaving the baffled salesman fumbling blindly for the door handle on the passenger side. "Thank you for your time," he said.

He left without looking back.

* * *

Dead End let himself into the apartment with his key and closed the door quietly behind him.

Three pairs of optics noted his arrival. Breakdown and Wildrider were seated on the floor playing cards, and Motormaster had laid claim to the couch. Drag Strip was nowhere to be seen. Dead End ignored them all and made a beeline for the washrack, shedding his human garments along the way, heedless of where they fell.

Breakdown and Wildrider exchanged a look, glancing from him to the trail of clothing he'd left abandoned in his wake, but Dead End shut the door on any questions they might have asked. He headed straight for the shower, turning on the water full blast and stepping under it.

For several minutes he stood beneath the pounding spray, offlining his optics and letting the roar of the water fill his audials. It beat against his skin in a rhythmic tattoo, sluicing over him, enveloping him in a cocoon of warmth and white noise.

He might have remained that way for hours, silent and motionless, drifting without thought beneath the steady thrum of rushing water, but a tentative brush of fingertips across his lower back pulled him from his apathetic daze.

He stiffened at the touch, belatedly registering that he was no longer alone in the 'rack.

"It's all right," Breakdown whispered, his soft voice barely audible. "It's just me."

Dead End relaxed, the tension slowly easing from his servos as Breakdown reached for the soap and began gently scrubbing his back. He wasn't fully accustomed to the subtle differences in the way their human bodies registered external stimuli – he wasn't sure he ever _would_ be – but the act itself was familiar and reassuring.

Breakdown didn't speak, knowing better than to try and engage him in pointless conversation. He simply soaped and scrubbed, his touch soft yet deliberate, and Dead End submitted to his ministrations, relishing the sensation of Breakdown's hands sliding over his skin.

He was mildly surprised when Breakdown finished with his back and began soaping his chest, slipping his arms around him in a quasi-embrace. Dead End could have easily done that himself, but he saw no reason to protest the unexpected attention. Breakdown was a warm, soothing presence at his back, his hands massaging Dead End's chestplate in broad, lazy circles, and Dead End had never been one to refuse a little tactile indulgence.

All in all, it was quite pleasant and relaxing – until Breakdown's hand dipped lower, venturing into distinctly uncharted territory.

Dead End tensed reflexively, his intakes hitching. "What are you doing?"

"Helping you relapse," Breakdown said, cupping him gently in a warm, soapy hand.

"I think you mean relax," he replied. "And I'm not sure that's the best way to do it."

"It is," Breakdown said, pressing his lip components to the back of Dead End's neck. "Trust me."

Dubiously, he submitted, allowing Breakdown to continue. He soon discovered that the flesh in that region was highly sensitive, responding to Breakdown's touch in a very curious manner.

"Don't worry, that's normal," Breakdown said before he could ask. "It's supposed to do that."

"If you say so," he replied. Truth be told, he wasn't all that inclined to complain. The way Breakdown was touching him felt…nice.

Breakdown's other hand wasn't idle, either; it continued to roam over his chestplate, periodically tugging and pinching the peculiar knobs there. His mouth was on Dead End's neck, exploring the skin with lips, tongue, and occasionally, teeth.

He was being deluged by a wealth of sensations; Breakdown's hands, his mouth, the warm water splashing over them, running over his skin or clinging in tiny droplets. His breath quickened, coming in short, hitching gasps, a strange tension gathering in his muscles, growing and building to an unsustainable peak –

And then all at once came the moment of release, accompanied by waves of pleasure that coursed through his frame, leaving him panting and trembling in the aftermath. His head fell back against Breakdown's shoulder as he sagged in his embrace, breathing a long drawn-out sigh.

"Are you back now?" Breakdown asked after a moment.

Dead End opened his eyes, tilting his head slightly to meet Breakdown's worried gaze. "Yes, I think so," he said. "What was that?"

"That's how humans interface," Breakdown replied. "Wildrider and I figured it out. Did you like it?"

"It seemed pleasant enough," he said. "Did you?"

Breakdown hesitated. "You mean when Wildrider did it?"

"Ah," he said, realizing his mistake. He twisted in his arms, turning around to face him, and laid a hand on Breakdown's chestplate. "Show me."

"Here," Breakdown said, taking hold of his hand and guiding it to the right spot. "Like this…"


	13. Off the Beaten Track

_Authors' note : The car Wildrider drives at the start of this chapter is taken from another popular TV show of that decade. Internet cookies to anyone who guesses which one!_

_Also, due to real life starting up again, chapter updates for Crash Course will be dropping back to once a week at most. We have the whole plot worked out… just not enough time to write as much as we'd like.

* * *

_

**Chapter 13 : Off The Beaten Track**

"32A," Wildrider said as he slammed the Corvette's door and turned the key in the ignition. "Watch me fly."

He would have been happy to drive any car, but the Corvette was a thing of beauty – perfectly maintained and upholstered in red leather, with its white paintjob set off by a bright red stripe. That had reminded Wildrider of his own alt-mode, and he had stared in longing at the car as the owner tossed the keys to Shen, the parking valet. Wildrider was still in training, but he looked hopefully at Shen.

"OK, let's see what you can do," Shen had said, tossing him the keys. "Take it right around and park in 32A."

_Nothing easier_, Wildrider thought as the engine growled into life. He shoved the parking brake down and slammed the gearshift, stamping a foot down on the gas pedal at the same time. The Covette shot forward as if fired out of a gun.

A long island divided the upper level of the parking garage, and 32A was on the other side. Wildrider reached the other end of the floor in two seconds, and threw his weight to one side, wrenching the steering wheel at the same time. The Corvette's weight shifted as well. It tore around the island on two wheels, thudded back to all four and then hurtled up the other side of the island with a shriek of rubber on asphalt.

Wildrider hit the brakes and swung into a bootlegger reverse with one hand on the wheel, the other arm tossed casually over the red leather seats. The Corvette shot into the correct parking space and Wildrider smashed the brake pedal just in time, halting the car with its rear bumper three inches from the wall. He yanked the parking brake up, killed the engine and jumped out, swinging the key jauntily from one finger as he turned to face the valet's booth. Shen stood there with his mouth open.

"Not bad, huh?" Wildrider said, glancing down to make sure he had parked within the lines. _Yup, it's perfect._

"You're fired," Shen told him.

* * *

Wildrider's first duty in his next job was to round up all the shopping trolleys that people had left all over the parking lot. Wearing his new green T-shirt with the "Trainee" badge, he plodded out of the grocery store to the other end of the parking lot, then turned and looked critically from side to side.

_Yeah… as long as I have the right speed and trajectory... and quit thinking about it and DO it—_

He burst into a run, then leaped as he reached the nearest trolley. He landed inside it, and his momentum was more than enough. The trolley took off with a loud rattle and Wildrider crouched down, then flung his weight to steer it in the correct direction as he aimed for the next trolley.

_Time it right_, he thought as he stood up. A moment before the first trolley folded into the second, he leaped over and into the second one. "Wheeeee!"

The crash as the carts combined had made his teeth rattle almost as badly as the trolley did, but now he had two… and then three. He dodged a car that was peeling out and collected more trolleys, riding at top speed across the parking lot and drawing closer to the storefront as he did so.

_Now comes the good part,_ he thought as he stood up. In the grocery store windows, customers were staring, so Wildrider waved at them a moment before the wheels of the first trolley hit the curb. He leaped with the impact, turned a somersault and landed feet-first on the sidewalk.

"Sure!" he said a few minutes later, when the supervisor asked him to turn in his badge. "Do I get a proper one now? With my name on it?"

* * *

Wildrider went home for lunch whistling a tune – that was something he could do as a human that he had never been able to do as a mech. The fact that he still wasn't employed didn't bother him. He would try again tomorrow and if that didn't work there was always the next day. As long as there were new things to do and experience, he was happy.

And besides, he reasoned, Motormaster couldn't punish him for doing his work perfectly and getting fired anyway.

As it turned out, Motormaster could and did, with a slap hard enough to send him sprawling to the floor. Then he drew back his boot as if ready to drive it into Wildrider's belly. "You'd better see about _keeping_ a job sometime soon," he said. "Understand?"

Wildrider nodded, so Motormaster only gave him a hard warning prod with the toe of his boot rather than kicking him into a fit of retches. Then he left, so Wildrider picked himself up, held a cold washcloth to his face until it stopped stinging and went to make sandwiches.

Drag Strip took off for his waxing session, but before Wildrider could start to feel lonely or bored – both of which tended to be bad news for his immediate surroundings – Breakdown had come home and they'd interfaced. That had made Wildrider feel even better. The day had started out slaggy but it was definitely looking up now.

Plus, Breakdown was hungry enough afterwards to finish another sandwich. "This is pretty good," he said. "Maybe you could get a job in a restaurant."

That wasn't a bad idea. Wildrider imagined himself whirling at top speed from industrial-sized range to massive oven, wielding knives like a spray of steel and flinging ingredients into boiling fluids that sent up clouds of smoke. It definitely seemed more exciting than his job at the supermarket had been. So that evening, after Dead End came home looking even gloomier than usual and Breakdown went to perk him up before he got into one of his funks, Wildrider started making a list of restaurants to call.

He had nearly finished when Drag Strip let himself in. Since _he_ had a job (and never hesitated to remind them about it), Motormaster had given him a key to the apartment, saying that at least that way he didn't need to wake anyone up at two in the morning.

Wildrider waved at him with a pen, but Drag Strip didn't respond and his usual confident swagger was nowhere in evidence as he stepped gingerly into the apartment. Dead End had been learning solitaire from Breakdown while they dried off after their shower, but he looked up as well.

"Hey, you're back," Breakdown said. "What was the wax like?"

Drag Strip gave them a broad smile that showed most of his teeth. "Oh, it was fantastic," he said, swinging the door shut behind him. "You guys have got to get one. You'd love it."

Wildrider burst out giggling and Breakdown clapped thrice, slowly. A muscle twitched in Dead End's cheek, as though it was trying to stretch his mouth into a smile.

"I've already explained to them what human waxing entails, Drag Strip," he said.

The fake grin fell off Drag Strip's face. "I hate you all," he said and headed for their bedroom with small careful movements, wincing occasionally. Still chuckling but now very curious about the effects of the waxing, Wildrider waited as long as he could, which was about five minutes. Then he went to their room as well.

It was dark inside and Drag Strip complained when he turned on one of the lights, but Wildrider was too fascinated by Drag Strip's now-hairless body to care. He bounced on to the bed.

"Wow," he said. "You're all smooth now. And pink!" He reached out but Drag Strip batted his hand away, hard. "What? You look so aerodynamic!"

"Well, it fragging hurt, so shut up," Drag Strip said, turning over on his side with his back to Wildrider. His shoulders were knotted and Wildrider rubbed them tentatively, expecting to be shot down again, but when there was no protest he perked up. Maybe if he managed to get Drag Strip relaxed enough, he would get a chance to touch and explore a bit more.

"Want me to show you what I learned today?" he murmured just behind Drag Strip's ear. "You'll like it."

"What?" Drag Strip said. "And don't stop massaging. You can do my feet next."

Wildrider mimed emptying his fuel tank, then tried to get back in the mood. He rubbed Drag Strip's upper arm, then remembered that it was no longer a hot spot.

"'Facing," he said. "Wanna try it?"

Drag Strip twisted back around and looked up at him. "Humans do that?"

"Sure." Wildrider stroked him, a long slow touch from ribcage to thigh. "Me and Breakdown did it this afternoon. It was fun."

"Well, I don't want to." Drag Strip twitched irritably. "I'm not interested in human intimacy. It's disgusting."

"Says the guy who strips for humans in public," Wildrider said. "What did you think _that_ was all about?"

"That's different. I don't let them paw me."

"Will you let _me_ paw you, then? I paw real good." Wildrider nuzzled an ear, pleased that Drag Strip hadn't waxed off the hair on his head. He liked the soft tickly feel of it.

"If you don't stop that I'm going to hit you," Drag Strip said tightly.

Wildrider stopped. He knew Drag Strip well enough to recognize changes in his tone. And while he enjoyed tussling, at the moment he would have preferred to interface.

"C'mon, sunshine." He used his most coaxing voice. "A good overload would relax you. Don't you at least want to try it?"

"No," Drag Strip said, his voice still tense as a spring that had been wound too far. "Those of us who have jobs and bring home money don't need whatever pathetic reactions humans have that pass for overloads. But you wouldn't know anything about that, would you?"

For a moment Wildrider thought he had been punched so fast he hadn't actually seen the blow. That would explain the sharp sudden pain in his chest. His face felt hot too, but on both sides rather than just the one like when Motormaster had hit him earlier. Suddenly he didn't feel like 'facing any more.

He got off the bed and put his clothes on quietly, zipping up his leather jacket before he left the room. Outside, he thought he heard Breakdown say something but he didn't pause as he walked out of the apartment, and he didn't stop until he was several blocks away.

_I'm not useless. I'm not. _But he didn't know what more he could do for the team than what he was already doing, and what if he kept getting fired? How would he get money?

_Rob a bank, maybe?_ No, if he tried that and got caught, Motormaster would be so torqued off at him. He bit at a fingernail and kept walking, feeling as though he just wanted to put some distance between himself and his teammates for once.

He hardly saw where he was going – none of the streets or buildings looked familiar – but when strobe lights flashed at the end of the road, his reaction was fast and instinctive. Before he could think twice, Wildrider darted into the nearest alley but while he was looking around for something to use as a weapon, the police car drove off.

Still crouched behind a wall, he waited for a moment in case it came back, keeping as quiet as possible. That was when he heard a stifled groan from somewhere further back in the alley.

Wildrider turned. There was a soft shuffle, as if someone was trying to move furtively away from him.

He jumped to his feet and headed deeper into the alley. Whatever had made the noise was hiding behind a dumpster, so Wildrider scrambled up on a crate and leaped on top of the dumpster with an echoing clang. Even in the near-darkness, he made out the huddled shape of a human below.

"Hey, come on, man!" The human raised a hand, staring up at him. "Haven't you guys done enough already?"

Wildrider's initial interest dwindled into disappointment. He hopped back down off the dumpster.

"What guys?" he said, more out of boredom and loneliness than any real curiosity.

The human's eyes looked even paler compared to the dirt and dried blood on his face. "D-didn't Jimmy send you?"

Wildrider couldn't remember Motormaster's human name but he felt sure it wasn't Jimmy – and Motormaster wouldn't send anyone else to do his thrashing for him. "No," he said. "Who's Jimmy?"

"The Nail, man." The human tried to move, but winced. "Say, can you call me a cab?"

"Okay. You're a cab." Wildrider chuckled, hooked his thumbs into the pockets of his jacket and slouched against the alley wall. "What's in it for me?"

The human looked up at him, eyes narrowing, and Wildrider shrugged. "C'mon, I can tell when someone's been mugged. You don't have any money and that's what I need right now, so." He started to walk away.

"Wait a sec."

Something about the tone of the human's voice stopped him – either that or the slight rustle of paper. He turned to see the human holding out a crumpled ten-dollar bill.

"That do you for now?" the human said. "You help me out, there be more where that came from."

Wildrider hesitated, suddenly aware that he was in a situation he didn't understand and that his team had no idea where he was. But the lure of money and danger was far too tempting, so he accepted the note and helped the human to his feet.

"I'm Melanie," he said.

Leaning heavily on Wildrider's shoulder, the human turned his head to stare at him. "And I thought I had it bad. My name's Marcelo, but everyone call me Marce."

"Nice meetin' ya," Wildrider said and took him to the end of the alley, where he left Marcelo propped against the wall. Then he halted a taxi by the simple method of leaping into the road before one and forcing it to stop, because he remembered Drag Strip being afraid when _he_ had done that. He wanted to be happy at his own lack of fear, but somehow he didn't feel much of anything.

"Can I have some more money now?" he said once he had deposited Marcelo in the back seat.

"Yeah." Marcelo's eyes narrowed again, brows coming together. "Yeah, Mel. But why don't you get in? We can talk about that money. And then we can go take it."

Wildrider hesitated again, but an injured human was no danger to him and he was curious about what Marcelo had meant about taking it. He got in and swung the door shut. Marcelo tilted his head in the driver's direction and said nothing more until the cab let them out at a small, nondescript apartment block.

"You ever ride a motorbike, Mel?" he said.

Wildrider remembered that when he and his teammates had once attacked the Protectobots, he had leaped astride the scooter. _What was that guy's name again?_ He couldn't remember, but he had managed to ride the scooter for a short distance before the startled Autobot had transformed and dumped him unceremoniously on his aft. So he nodded.

"Good, good." Marcelo fished out a set of keys and dropped them in Wildrider's hand. "Bring it out? It's in the garage over there."

Wildrider all but ran to the garage, leaving Marcelo staggering, but he couldn't have looked back even if the human had spontaneously exploded. Inside the garage was a Honda RC30, gleaming black and chrome and glass.

_Better than money!_ Wildrider flung a leg over it, flipped the kill switch and turned the key in the ignition. The gauges lit up like a fireworks display and the powerful engine turned over, then roared. Wildrider hooked a foot into the kickstand, pulling it up, and shot out of the garage with a whoop of glee. He did a circuit of the parking lot, picking up speed, then yanked the front tire up into a wheelie before he brought the bike to a stop before Marcelo.

"Hey, this is awesome!" he said, and thought of simply riding it home. Drag Strip would die of jealousy and surely there was no way the police could find him. He put one foot on a pedal, preparing to race out.

"Can you win a race on that?" Marcelo said.

_A race?_ Wildrider didn't need to think twice before he nodded. He was in the mood to kick someone's aft that night, and a race would be fine for that.

"Who else is racing?" he said, wishing it could be Drag Strip. _I'd make him eat my exhaust._

Marcelo lit a long cigarette that smelled even sweeter than the gas fumes. "Three other guys, maybe four, but the one you got to watch out for is the one who ain't in the race. The one who's got money riding on it. His boys jumped me but you can take my place. And if you win, we split the cash."

Wildrider gave the engine a shot of gas, just to hear it rev. He'd missed that sound. "Just tell me where to go and who to crash."

Marcelo grinned. The parking lot was better lit than the alley had been, but the smile looked worse than the bruises on his face. "Jimmy the Nail." He unhooked a helmet that had been hanging off the back of the motorcycle's seat and tossed it to Wildrider. "That's who."


	14. Off to the Races

_Authors' notes : Drag Strip may win races, but Wildrider specializes in taking out the competition – whether he's on four wheels, on two or on none._

_- anon_decepticon and QoS/mdperera_

_-Thanks to kookaburra1701 for her support and input!_

**Chapter 14 : Off to the Races**

Wildrider tapped the brakes, halting the RC30 before a couple of trashcans blocking the mouth of an alley. A woman wearing a human visor – two clear glass circles, like miniature windshields – leaned against the wall just behind them, and her eyes widened when she saw him.

"Didn't think you'd show up." She stubbed her cigarette out on the lid of one trashcan and kicked it out of the way to make room for him.

Wildrider raised one gloved hand in a cheery wave and drove in. The alley opened on to a street that didn't seem large enough for the three motorbikes lined up across it. The place was poorly lighted as well, but the headlights of the bikes glowed brighter than optics in the dark and the growl of their engines nearly drowned out the mutters of the people on the sidewalk as Wildrider half-drove and half-skidded into position beside the bikes.

"That ain't Marcelo!" shouted a younger man hanging on to a wire fence that bordered the other side of the street.

Wildrider wondered how the man had been able to tell, since he was wearing Marcelo's helmet and leather gloves. He could have done without the helmet, but he was keeping the gloves no matter what happened. "Nope," he said. "Name's Mel. I'm racing in his place."

There were a few chuckles at that but Wildrider hardly noticed. He looked around at his competitors, wondering which of them to take out first.

Marcelo had warned him about that. "Jimmy got money on someone else in the race. I dunno who, but that dude'll try kill you. You might want kill him first."

Wildrider was more than happy to comply. He wasn't so keen on keeping the helmet on because it made his head feel heavy, but Marcelo had told him a story about some gestaltmate of his who had gotten into an accident with a bike and "banged his brain". Wildrider didn't want anything else happening to his processors, which he'd been told were fragged-up to begin with. So the helmet stayed on.

He didn't like the way it restricted his peripheral vision either, making him turn his head to evaluate his competitors, two of whom looked back at him with equal dislike. One was a man with bare tattooed arms that bulged almost as much as Motormaster's, his big hands gripping the handles of a Harley.

The other was a woman whose bulges were in the front, pushing out the faces of Sideswipe and Sunstreaker on her T-shirt. The words "Lambos do it in pairs" were printed underneath, and Wildrider wondered if he could somehow get the T-shirt off her to give to Breakdown. She had a nice bike, though – a stripped-down Ducati streetfighter that Wildrider knew would be both fast and maneuverable.

The last participant in the race glanced up when Wildrider stared at him, then dropped his gaze and shifted his Kawasaki Ninja as if to put as much space as possible between them. He was thin, pale-skinned and dressed entirely in grey clothes so nondescript that they made him look like a ghost.

"That's Marcelo's bike," another man said from the sidelines as he drew a gun. Wildrider stiffened, wondering if they planned to shoot him right there and end the race, but the man only continued. "He can enter. Start your engines."

The woman with the Autobot T-shirt drew on a pair of gauntlets with studded knuckles and a stylized helmet with blue glass before her eyes. Wildrider felt his lips curve in the crazy crooked smile that sometimes had even his own teammates edging away from him. He flipped up the kickstand of the RC30 and twisted the right grip to rev his engine, every component of his frame stretched out taut as wires.

The man raised the gun and fired.

Engines roared so loudly they seemed to split the world apart. The RC30 rocketed forward, and Wildrider wasn't sure if the shuddering in his chest came from the machine's speed or his own laughter. All he knew was that in moments, he was in the lead. No one else could – or would – match his breakneck pace as the wind screamed past him.

The streets were deserted, perfect for racing, and he only had five miles or so to go. Marcelo had told him where the end of the race was – an abandoned warehouse on the outskirts of the city – and had given him directions there, though it was an effort to remember them. Wildrider missed his nav system, the maps he could have called up on his HUD with a thought.

_Oh well_, he thought as he sped down the road, _I can always let one of these slaggers get ahead of me, follow him, and then flatten him before he crosses the finish line._ He leaned sharply so the RC30 could corner around a building. _Or better yet, take his bike and make him run—_

A shot rang out behind him. Wildrider jerked in surprise, but when he risked a quick glance behind him he saw that none of his competitors had turned the corner yet_. Are they shooting at each other?_ That seemed too good to be true… and also too boring. _I want a challenge, damn it!_

On the other hand, getting shot was probably a little more of a challenge than his human body could take, so he maintained his speed and rode on, approaching a low overpass. The RC30's headlight picked out the road just ahead, but a little further on the weak glow of a streetlight gleamed off of something on the overpass. Without the zoom function on his optics, Wildrider squinted at the sharp serrated glint, trying to make out what—

_Spike strips!_

The strips covered the entire width of the overpass, and now he knew why the shot had been fired. It had been a warning signal to whoever was at the overpass, to spring the trap. No time to turn, much less stop. Wildrider countersteered, tilting the RC30 to the left, where a bundle of trash – or a bundled-up vagrant, he didn't have time to see what it was – lay on the sidewalk.

The bike bounced up on to the curb and zoomed ahead, then struck the bundle at a hundred and fifty miles an hour. It left the ground entirely and sailed into the air, then came down again – onto the rail of the overpass.

Wildrider gripped the handles so tightly that his hands felt numb, holding the bike in a perfectly straight line as it roared along the rail. He let out a howl of glee as he passed the spike strips only four feet below him, and at his speed he cleared the overpass in seconds.

The bike soared off the rail and bounced against the road so hard that his teeth came together in a snap, but he ignored the pain and slammed the brakes, slewing to a halt. He let the rear wheel swing around the fulcrum of one foot planted on the ground and looked behind him.

The tattooed man on the Harley had been next in line and he tried to brake when he saw the spike strips. Rubber shrieked on asphalt and the Harley went down, but it was still moving with enough momentum to slide across ten feet of road on to the metal barbs.

Wildrider winced involuntarily, thinking of what that might have done to _his _tires, but he didn't look away. Even through the cloud of smoke and dust he saw two figures dart out from the shadows to remove the spike strips.

_So one of the other competitors is the one I have to take out._ He considered getting rid of whoever was removing the trap first, but without a long-range weapon he would have to deal with them at close quarters. And from the rumble of engines in the distance, he could tell that his other two rivals were closing in.

He backed the bike away a little, until its rear wheel was almost at the mouth of another alley. If one of the other riders failed to see him in the near-darkness and crashed into him, it would certainly take out his competitor but it would damage his sleek RC30 too. _But how to slag them without getting slagged?_

He looked around, glancing into the alley, and saw something sticking out of a pile of garbage. It looked like a long metal rod.

Wildrider reversed quickly and grabbed it up. _A crowbar, good enough!_ He thrust it between his knee and the side of the bike.

Before he could do anything else the woman in the Autobot T-shirt sped over the spot he had been on only moments earlier, moving so fast she was a blur. _Fragging streetfighter_, Wildrider thought as he gunned his engine. The RC30's fairing, its outer shell, made it tough but weighed it down compared to the sleek Ducati, reminding him of the difference between his and Drag Strip's alt-modes. He guessed that just keeping pace with the streetfighter would be the most his own machine could do.

_But I've got a weapon now_, he thought as he fed the engine more gas and peeled out. The streetfighter was fast, but Wildrider had yet to meet anyone – human or Cybertronian – with his complete disregard for everything in his way, whether it be another driver or the laws of physics. He slammed the throttle, all but grinding the speedometer needle against the last gradation on the dial. The engine was starting to overheat, but he ignored that as he steadily drew level with the woman, his front tire parallel with her fender and struggling to inch past it.

He grabbed the crowbar and thrust it at her rear wheel.

The bar was wrenched out of his hand as the wheel spun it around. Wildrider swerved to avoid a burst of sparks as the bar struck the ground and the Ducati went out of control, the woman fighting to steer as it careened away. Before she could recover, the front tire smashed into the curb – still at top speed.

The Ducati flipped over, flinging the woman against the sidewalk so hard that the blue visor of her helmet shattered. Wildrider goosed his brakes for a better look, but to his disappointment her T-shirt was unsalvageable.

The snarl of another engine grew louder and he reflexively twisted the throttle. That was the only thing which saved him. The RC30 bolted forward an instant before a gun went off, and a window a few feet from his head shattered.

Wildrider's fuel pump hammered in his chest as the Kawasaki flew past him. The man in grey fired again. He didn't even see where the bullet went that time; all he heard was his own laughter as he slammed the throttle again, chasing his last competitor.

The Kawasaki's rear wheel kicked up bits of gravel that spattered off his windscreen. Still riding, the man in grey half-twisted around, firing again and again.

Wildrider ducked, throwing his weight from side to side to make the RC30 weave. Bullets tore away one of his side-view mirrors, punched through the bike's fairing and clipped the edge of the windscreen, but to his relief they didn't damage the tires. When the man in grey turned around again, he dared to straighten up and coax some more speed out of his bike.

But the Kawasaki kept just ahead of him. Wildrider wasn't sure why, though he guessed it had a supercharger – probably nitrous oxide – and even with his engine hammering at its limit the most he could do was tail the man in grey. His fuel gauge, he realized, was hovering on E. Had a bullet hit that somehow? He didn't know; all he knew was that he had to stop the man in grey. _No weapon, not much fuel, not even anything to throw at the fragger—_

_Except one thing._

Wildrider tore at the strap of his helmet, doing his best to steer with one hand, then hefted the helmet in the other hand like a bowling ball. _I only get one throw, _he thought as he stared at the man in grey just ahead. He didn't have Cybertronian processors to calculate speed and trajectory in nanoseconds, or mechanical limb components that could have spanned a mile with the makeshift missile; he had nothing except the joy of the chase and the terrorist's instincts that told him to stop stalling and just _DO _it—

He flung the helmet with all his strength and it struck the man solidly on the back of the head. The impact knocked him forward. To Wildrider's delight the man lost his grip on the handlebars and fell from the Kawasaki entirely, rolling when he hit the road and fetching up on his back. The riderless bike smashed into a side of a parked car.

Wildrider mashed his own brakes and slammed his feet against the road so hard the friction burned through the soles of his sneakers as the rear half of the RC30 slewed to a halt. One heel shoved the kickstand down and he vaulted off the bike. The man in grey shook his head in a half-dazed way, reaching into his jacket, but Wildrider got to him first. He slammed a knee into the man's stomach and shoved a hand inside the grey jacket, searching for the gun.

Gasoline gurgled out of the Kawasaki's ruined fuel tank, the sound nearly drowning out the rapid footsteps approaching behind him. Wildrider turned, saw a blur coming down at his face and raised an arm instinctively. A fist smashed into his forearm, turning it numb with shock, but Wildrider lashed one foot out in a backward kick. His heel drove into his attacker's shin.

But before he could use his brief advantage, the man in grey struck out with the gun. The barrel hit Wildrider just below one eye, splitting flesh down to one cheekbone, and for a moment the world went white with pain. In that instant a thick arm snaked around his neck and tightened like a noose. His right hand was caught as well and pulled up painfully behind his back.

Wildrider struggled a little, then deliberately went limp. He had once fooled Drag Strip by doing that when they had tussled, and he could tell that the man choking him was almost as strong as Motormaster. The smell of sweat and cigarette smoke rolled off the man in near-solid waves as the vise-like grip relaxed.

Then a point of searing agony burned into Wildrider's forehead just over one temple.

Wildrider screamed involuntarily, flailing with his free arm. His eyes flew open as his hand connected, and he saw what had burned him – a lit cigarette – arc through the air and it hit the ground nearby. The man holding him twisted him around and slammed him face-down against the asphalt.

Tiny bits of dirt and gravel stuck to the blood still oozing down his cheek. Wildrider kicked out blindly and furiously until he felt someone else's weight come down across his legs.

He heard soft metallic sounds like small components clinking together, and turned his head back as far as he could to see what was happening. The burn on his forehead throbbed unbearably, but he almost forgot about it when he caught a glimpse of the man in grey. Something small glinted between the man's fingers. When he lowered it, Wildrider felt a sharp point prick the back of his right knee.

Suddenly he knew why Marcelo had called his rival "Jimmy the Nail". He struggled again, but with his right arm still pinioned behind his back and both men's weight on him, he had no leverage.

A streetlight flickered and then brightened. It turned the spreading pool of gasoline iridescent and threw a distorted, elongated shadow on the street before Wildrider – the silhouette of a hammer raised high over his leg.

Wildrider looked desperately from side to side for a weapon, for anything that would save him. But nothing was within reach – except the smoldering butt of the cigarette that had burned him.

He swung his free arm along the ground in a hard fast sweep. The cigarette sailed through the air, glowing even more brightly, and landed in the fuel. Even before it splashed in, the fumes ignited with a _fsssh_ and the Kawasaki's gas tank exploded.

Since Wildrider was already on the ground he escaped the worst of it, but the two men holding him jolted sideways. Wildrider wrenched his arm free, twisted around and grabbed the hammer. The bigger man caught his wrist to keep the weapon away and then made the mistake of flinging his weight across Wildrider to hold him down, bringing his face conveniently close. Wildrider jerked up and bit him.

He howled and lurched back, hands over his face. The man in grey had already stumbled away through the thick smoke, heading for the RC30, and Wildrider pitched the hammer at the back of his head. The other man beat a hasty retreat, still holding his face as if afraid it would fall off at any moment.

Exhausted, Wildrider dragged himself to his feet and staggered to the RC30. His own face felt none too good at the moment, and he suddenly wished he was home, even with Motormaster slapping him around and Drag Strip being nasty. The heat made his skin drip, his clothes were filthy and the fun of the race was gone. Even though he knew he had won, there didn't seem to be much point in a victory where no one cared whether he was damaged or not.

The people waiting near the abandoned warehouse told him no one had ever crossed the finish line going at the speed limit before, but Wildrider barely listened as he collected his winnings and started on the long ride back.

* * *

"You a mess," was Marcelo's only comment after he opened the door and took a long look at Wildrider.

"Yeah, but I'm a rich mess." Wildrider tried to grin, then winced as that hurt his cheek. He reached into his jacket and produced a handful of crumpled banknotes, tightly wadded together.

He had thought once or twice of simply walking away with the money. On the other hand, if he had learned anything from the Stunticons' time in human society it was that cooperating with humans, boring though it was, earned more money – albeit not upfront – than stealing from them did. And that was a far safer excuse he could give Motormaster than his other reason for returning to Marcelo's apartment… he was lonely.

It felt nice to be welcomed, to get a smile of approval and have someone fuss over him. Marcelo gave him a cold beer and a colder icepack for his face while he counted off two hundred dollars of the take.

"You wanna race again?" he said as he sat down heavily in a chair and turned the TV on.

"Sure!" Wildrider considered. "But I want more money next time."

Marcelo laughed. "Tough customer. I like that. Leave me your number and I'll be in touch." Wildrider scribbled it down and Marcelo lit another sweet-smelling cigarette, took a long pull on it and then held it out, butt end first.

Wildrider took it and imitated the dragging inhale, trying to make it look casual, before he handed the cigarette back. The damage he had taken seemed to recede behind a slow sense of well-being that turned into a pleasant haze, but after a few more moments he got up. Motormaster would be torqued off if he was late.

So he finished his beer and took a cab back home. As he had expected, even after receiving the money Motormaster was furious, partly because Wildrider had left without telling anyone where he was going. Wildrider tried to explain that _he_ hadn't known where he was headed, so there was no way he could have informed anyone else about it.

Motormaster's eyes narrowed to slivers. "From the looks of you, someone else already slagged you, so you're confined to quarters for three days," he said. "Try leaving and I'll put your head through the wall. Now get out of my sight."

_Great_. Wildrider could only hope that Marcelo wouldn't come up with any great opportunities for racing within the next three days. He got up, unzipping his jacket.

"What happened to them?" Motormaster said from behind him. "The humans who jumped you?"

He turned. "Slagged 'em back."

Motormaster nodded fractionally and Wildrider headed for the washracks. He kicked off his sneakers, then dumped the rest of his clothes in a heap. When he caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror, the sight made him grimace – the cut across his cheek had turned to a dark scab, and the burn on his forehead looked worse. It was still painful to the touch.

He turned the shower on, cold. Even if anyone had wanted to join him under a spray of icy needles, they wouldn't have had time. Wildrider scrubbed himself down at speed, toweled himself off roughly and went back to his room. Drag Strip had been sitting on the edge of the bed, but he got up at once and left.

All the loneliness Wildrider had held back during that night threatened to break past his control. Clearly Drag Strip was still holding a grudge – or was jealous that Wildrider had won a race – and didn't even want to share the room with him. _Well, I don't care. I get the whole fragging bed to myself_. He flopped down on the mattress, wondering whether to trash the place. Drag Strip liked it neat.

The door creaked open. Drag Strip slipped back in, Wildrider's discarded clothes bundled in his arms. He set the sneakers neatly by the door, hung up the jacket and put the rest into the laundry pile. Then he sat down on the other side of the bed, keeping a careful distance between himself and Wildrider.

The room was very quiet, and after another minute or so Wildrider gave in; he couldn't stand the silence. "I won't try and 'face you again if you hate it so much," he said.

Drag Strip shifted as if he had sat on something pointy. "I don't mind you touching me," he said finally. "But humans get so damp and smelly when they get turned on. I see it in the club all the time."  
Wildrider rolled over on to his side, propping his head up on an elbow, and wondered if Drag Strip planned to go without until they got their real frames back. Probably, knowing how stubborn he could be.

Drag Strip stretched out on the bed. "Guess they can't help being turned on, watching me. But it's still revolting."

Wildrider reached for Drag Strip's hand and nuzzled the inside of his wrist. "You're right," he said before pressing his lips to the skin. He felt fine strong lines, like cables and wires, beneath his mouth. "It's gross."

"Yeah," Drag Strip agreed. "That's why so many humans have to pay for it."

Wildrider nearly asked how much they normally paid, but stopped himself in time. He parted his lips, sensing a little surge throb through the skin beneath them, and traced a circle with the tip of his tongue.

"I wonder if the others think it's gross too," he murmured as he began to kiss his way down Drag Strip's arm.

"Breakdown'd try it just 'cause that's what humans do and he wants to pass for one." Drag Strip swallowed as Wildrider found the inside of his elbow, nipped it lightly and then licked the skin. It was a moment before he went on. "And he probably polished the Depressedicon until _he_ gave in."

Wildrider smiled and moved to Drag Strip's chest, teasing one of the little knobs with his teeth before he drew it into his mouth. He felt Drag Strip trying to raise his head, probably to see what he was doing, and stopped at once.

"What about Motormaster?" he said.

Drag Strip's breathing was audible and faster. "What about him?"

"You think he'd ever want to try it?" Wildrider began to edge away, moving slowly down Drag Strip's body.

"Frag no. He hates everything about... what are you doing?"

"Well, I'm not 'facing you, sunshine." Wildrider rubbed his uninjured cheek against Drag Strip's abdominal plating, then blew on the enticingly smooth skin below that. He gripped Drag Strip's narrow hips to hold them steady and moved lower. "'Cause that would be gross, right?"

"Yeah, but – what _are_ you doing? Wildrider, if you bite me there I'll kill you. I mean it, I'll rip your arms off and beat you to… oh. Ohhhh."

* * *

_Three days later…_

"Hi," Wildrider said brightly, sticking his hand out the way humans usually did when they first met each other. He had arrived as early as possible to make sure he got this particular job. "My friend told me there was a position open at your erotic petting zoo. I'm here to apply for it."

The manager, who had taken his hand and begun to shake it, went still. "I may have misheard you, Mr. Wildes," she said, releasing his hand. "This is a petting zoo for exotic animals that have been abandoned by their owners. We need someone to clean out the cages. Are you applying for that job?"

_Damn it, Breakdown!

* * *

_

_Additional notes : The car Wildrider drove in the last chapter was the one Face drove in The A-Team. _


	15. Crashing the Party

_Authors' notes : Motormaster has a head-on collision with human social interaction. And there's a shoutout to another of our readers – you know who you are._

– _anon_decepticon and QoS/mdperera_

_Thanks also to Kookaburra 1701 for her support and input!

* * *

_

**Chapter 14 : Crashing the Party**

Motormaster glanced around—no police cars anywhere in sight—and peered through the glass portion of the deli door before he pushed it open. Good though it felt to have a human properly awed by him to the point where he was supplied with free fuel, he wouldn't allow himself to get too comfortable with the arrangement until he was sure it was safe.

So for the first two days he only dropped in to pick up coffees, one for each of the team except Wildrider. On the third day, though, he went to the deli just before it closed—all the other customers were gone—and the woman working there asked if he wanted to sit down and have something to eat as well.

The instinctive revulsion he'd initially felt at the prospect of eating solid food had faded into an unpleasant twinge, and Motormaster already knew that if he didn't eat he would end up feeling worse. So he nodded curtly and went to the nearest table, noticing as he did that the damage to the ceiling still hadn't been repaired.

The woman came around the counter with a tray that held a plate and two cups. She placed it on the table and sat down opposite him. "Help yourself."

Motormaster wasn't sure why she was sitting there but before he could ask her he noticed the food. Two brown objects like small tires lay on the plate, covered with a darker brown coating like glossy mud. He'd seen food a bit like that before—Breakdown had bought some from a grocery store—but there was something wrong with these specimens.

"Where's the middle?" he said.

"What?" the woman said.

"Someone ate the centers out of those," Motormaster pointed out.

The woman tilted her head a little to one side. "You've never had a chocolate donut before?"

So it was supposed to look like that. Ignoring the question, Motormaster picked one up and bit off half of it. It didn't taste bad, even without a center.

"My name's Val," the woman said.

_Human names have no meaning at all,_ Motormaster thought. Now if humans took a tip from Cybertronians, this woman would be called Delikeeper or Coffeepot, something that made sense and was easy to remember. He finished eating the first donut and started on the second.

Val quickly shifted one of the coffee cups nearer to herself and set the other one before him. "Black, one sugar," she said before she lowered her voice and leaned forward. "In case you're wondering how it went after you left… turned out the guy'd held up four other places, all small businesses. Shot one of the owners, too."

_Humans,_ Motormaster thought in disgust. _Weaklings, all of them. Why didn't any of them try to stop that slagger and protect their property?_ Even the humans who had ambushed Breakdown and Wildrider had understood the importance of defending one's territory—he had plowed into them for daring to lay a hand on his subordinates, but at least they hadn't been cowards.

"Why didn't you try to stop him?" he said. Val should have been capable of handling a thief on her own, but she had been about to hand over the contents of her cash register.

She looked startled. "He had a _gun_."

"No, _really?_" Motormaster said contemptuously. "What difference does that make? I didn't have a gun and I was the one who walked out at the end."

"Yeah, well." Val looked him up and down. "You're kind of big."

"So are you. You're only about five inches shorter than I am, and you must weigh, what, two hundred pounds?"

Her face went curiously blank for a long moment, though her eyes narrowed. Motormaster supposed she was evaluating her physical capabilities and hopefully thinking of ways to use them the next time someone tried to rob her. He continued eating his donut.

"Never mind," Val said finally. "Let's talk about something else. How's the job search going?"

Motormaster paused in mid-chew, giving her a look that would have made an Autobot slam the brakes and peel out in reverse.

Val cringed down in her chair a little. "Ouch. That bad, huh?" She sipped her coffee. "I hate interviews. All those questions."

It hadn't occurred to Motormaster that a human could share his opinion on that matter. "It's like an interrogation," he grumbled. "Why don't they just ask to see what you can do?"

"Well, I've seen what you can do," Val said, and a small conspiratorial smile appeared on her face. "You'd make a great bouncer."

"A what?" Motormaster wondered if she was making fun of him. Bouncing was what Wildrider did at his most hyperactive, or after drinking coffee.

"You know," Val said. "A bouncer. At a club." She paused as if expecting a reply, then went on, "The guy who stands at the door, checks ID and makes sure everything stays in order? Like, throwing out anyone who starts a fight inside or bothers the staff." She tilted her head toward the door without looking away from him. "You know, like what you did."

"They'd _pay_ me to do that?"

Val grinned. "Well, if you did it well enough. And I know a club you can try – it's called the 181. I'll give you the address." She produced a pad from a pocket and took a pen from behind one ear, then scribbled rapidly. "I used to bartend there, so I know the manager. Go see her and let her know you'd be interested in the position."

The hope left as quickly as it had arrived, and Motormaster slumped back into his chair. Picking up his cup of coffee, he drained it in one long pull and then crushed the cup in his fist.

"What is it?" Val said nervously.

Motormaster hated admitting weakness to himself, let alone to anyone else, but somehow it seemed different to tell Val. She wasn't one of his team, so it didn't matter if she saw him as being anything less than powerful and competent – plus, she was human, and compared to a human, even Laserbeak would have seemed like a tower of strength.

"I don't have all that stuff they want," he said. "Like a resume."

"Well, that's not a problem," Val said. "There's a job center two blocks south of here, on 8th. Their computers are ancient, but you can sign up to use one and… what? What is it?"

"Nothing," Motormaster said, reminding himself that it would not be wise to contact the base with other humans milling about. "Continue."

"Yes _sir_," Val said with more than a touch of sarcasm. "You can write your resume there and print it out."

"What should it say?"

That time the look she gave him was so skeptical that Motormaster had to tell himself that he was physically identical to a human, there was no way she could see what he really was. "Haven't you ever worked before?" she said.

"Of course I have." He had been a warrior in Megatron's army from the moment he had been created. "Just not for… ordinary people."

She arched her optic ridges. "Was it for the kind of people who'd take it out on your kneecaps if you said anything about them?"

Motormaster looked down at his knees automatically but didn't know what else to say, so he decided to redirect the conversation. "What should I put on the resume?"

"If you can't mention education or experience, not a whole lot," Val said dryly. "Name, address and phone number would be best, so they can at least contact you." She hesitated. "I can call Jess – that's the manager – to let her know you're hoping to apply for a job there, but what shall I say your name is?"

Motormaster crumpled the paper cup a little more. He disliked giving away any information to humans and yet he had no choice, especially if he wanted this one to put in a good word for him. _That_, he didn't mind so much. Even though he would normally have hated taking any favors from a human, Val was obviously trying to repay him for throwing that robber out of her establishment.

"Tomas Morter," he said.

She smiled. "Your friends call you Tom?"

Once again Motormaster found himself not knowing what to say. All he really had was his team, who were hardly on friendly terms with him, and they all addressed him by his real designation apart from Wildrider. Human names were much more complicated – as well as having two parts, they could be split up into further subdivisions.

"I'll go to this club tomorrow," he said and got up.

"Sure," Val said, though she was no longer smiling. She stirred the crumbs on the empty plate with a finger, looking down at them. "Drop in and let me know how it goes. If you feel like it."

* * *

Motormaster disliked the manager of the 181 at once. Jess Levant was so short and thin that there seemed to be something fundamentally _wrong_ about his taking orders from her. It would be as though Frenzy had been the leader of the Decepticons, rather than Megatron.

But the thought of returning home empty-handed – without even a gun and a free cup of coffee this time – was worse, so he had to sit there in a chair that felt too small for him while she looked at the equally small resume that he had managed to write. He'd even managed to include what Dead End called "relevant experience".

_1985 – present : Supervised a five-person team responsible for observing the competition and handling security measures. Also worked independently to deliver supplies cross-country on a routine basis._

Jess didn't look impressed, though, and she held his resume between thumb and forefinger, her forehead crinkling as she studied it. _Face like a wedge,_ Motormaster thought with disdain. Now Val had a proper face, unlike most humans – broad with good strong angles.

"Valerie speaks well of you," Jess said finally, "but if we hire you it will be done on a probationary basis and you won't be on the books. That's the best I can offer someone with no experience or even identification. If it works out then we'll see what can be arranged in that regard."

Motormaster nodded. He had decided that when in doubt about what humans meant, a nod was the best response.

"Now about the service which you performed that brought you to Valerie's attention…" Jess began.

"You mean me half killing the guy who tried to rob her?" Motormaster said, then saw the look on her face. He nodded.

"Yes, that. Being able to handle yourself in that particular fashion is good, but barring exceptional circumstances it won't be necessary in this position. Especially if either our customers or our property is damaged in the process. Most of your duties will involve routine security such as checking identification of the kind that you lack. Are you still interested?"

_She talks like Dead End, she's more irritating than Drag Strip… and I need the job_. He nodded for the third time.

Jess believed in putting new staff to work right away, so after Motormaster was stuffed into an XXL T-shirt with the club's logo on the front and given a quick briefing on fake identification, he was positioned at the club's entrance. He stood there monitoring what seemed like an endless line of little plastic cards, unsure what was so terrible about being under twenty-one – he was far younger, after all. But he had his orders and he was determined to carry them out. _Getting fired after one day is what happens to Wildrider, not me._

Sometimes the pictures on the cards didn't quite match the faces of the humans, but Motormaster had been told what kinds of questions to ask under those circumstances. So the night proceeded smoothly and dully until he looked at one particular license, then stared at the face of the human who had handed it to him. He was growing used to the ways human faces changed – the hair certainly did and sometimes the eyes would be covered by lenses, but the shape of the face and the color of the skin did not.

"Can I have that back?" the human said. There were a few red spots on his cheeks, but they almost vanished in the flush that swept over him under Motormaster's cold scrutiny.

"Name?" Motormaster said.

"Uh – Alan Connors."

"And your date of birth?"

"June fourth? Nineteen sixty-four."

He'd gotten the year right, but not the month or day. Motormaster handed him the license.

"Get a better fake next time," he said. "Next." A line was starting to build up.

Alan glanced at the interior of the club as if wondering if he could make a run for it, then looked back at Motormaster. "I think you got it wrong, man," he said. "Take another look." He held the license out again.

Motormaster took it back, wondering if the date would have changed in some way, but instead he felt a piece of folded paper behind the oblong of plastic. He held it up and saw that it was a ten-dollar bill. There was a muffled giggle from the line of people waiting to be let in, but Alan only looked annoyed, as though that had not been the expected outcome.

"A bribe," Motormaster said slowly. He'd been offered one or two of those in his time on the _Nemesis_, but it took him a moment to realize that the humans did the same thing, except on a petty scale.

Alan rolled his eyes. "Yeah. Thanks for flashing it around."

Motormaster folded the bill around the fake license and slipped both down the neck of the human's shirt. He didn't know what was more insulting – that the little slagger had tried to bribe him into disobeying orders – _do I look like Swindle?_ – or that the bribe had been so small. "Get the frag out," he said.

"Fine." Alan took a step back. "I didn't want to hang out in this shitty dump anyway." He paused as if waiting for some response, then spat on the toe of Motormaster's boot.

Before anyone could react Motormaster's hand shot out and closed on the human's ear, twisting it in half. Alan shrieked, trying to pull the vise-like grip open, so Motormaster dug his nails into skin and cartilage as well.

"Shut up or I'll make it worse," he hissed. A few people in the line had been complaining about the delay, but now they were all very quiet. Alan fell silent as well except for his harsh breathing.

"Drop your hands," Motormaster said. He was beginning to enjoy the feeling of power, the way the human was finally looking at him with fear – and obeying promptly, too. One or two of the waiting people edged their way out of the line and disappeared.

"Please," Alan said. "Please, let me go-"

"You sure you don't want to wet my other boot?" Motormaster said, with a grin that made the human flinch away – then wince at the strain on his ear. "No? Well, in that case you'd better wipe off what you did. On your knees."

He twisted a little harder. It was, he thought, like turning a handle that resisted initially but produced the desired movement in the end. Alan sank down, reaching out a trembling hand to wipe the boot clean. There was a wide, open circle around them now as those people who hadn't made themselves scarce simply stared. One of the bartenders, who had been nearby having a smoke break, was watching as well.

But the punishment had only just begun. Motormaster leaned closer and lowered his voice.

"What are you doing here?" he said, almost conversationally. "You're as phony as your ID and too broke to offer a decent bribe. You couldn't even find any friends to come with you. You think anyone here is impressed by your ability to throw a tantrum and grovel?"

Alan stared up at him, the color draining out of his face except for his ear, which was an angry red around Motormaster's pinching fingers.

"You're a joke and everyone knows it," Motormaster whispered and released him, straightening up as he did so. He spoke at a normal tone of voice, but kept his tone casual. "Now go back to where you belong."

Alan scrabbled back, never looking away from Motormaster and only getting to his feet when he was well out of reach. His eyes were huge in his pale, glistening face. He turned abruptly and ran out.

Motormaster kept his features still but couldn't stop himself smiling inwardly. That was the way to deal with things. He'd done his job without breaking anything or even damaging the human who mouthed off to him and tried to get past the security measures. He could handle little fraggers like that with words alone. _Not bad at all,_ he thought.

The bartender who had been watching turned away and the abrupt movement recalled Motormaster to his duty. "Next," he said, snapping his fingers impatiently. The next person in line nearly jumped back, but extracted a license and handed it over at arm's length. Motormaster got back to work.

He was tired by the end of the night, when the music ended and the customers filed out. Sighing, he rolled his shoulders to get the stiffness out of them and realized that he was thirsty. The interior of the club smelled of cigarette smoke, perfume and sweat, so he didn't plan on staying there any longer than it took to get a drink before he started the long walk home. He headed over to the bar.

The other staff were gathered there and he heard the clinking of coins. Wondering what was going on, he moved closer and saw that they had upended a container labeled "TIP JAR" and were dividing up the contents. Everyone seemed to be getting a share. The coins gleamed faintly under the overhead lights.

Motormaster walked closer, and they all looked up. The talk stopped abruptly, and he hesitated as well – had he interrupted some human ritual that he wasn't allowed to participate in, for some reason? _No, I'm human too now and I work here, don't I? I'm entitled to some of that money too._

"Where's my tip?" he said.

A bartender straightened up from behind the counter. "You want a tip?" There was a belligerent undercurrent to his tone, but before Motormaster could respond in kind – though to a greater degree – the bartender continued. "Stop acting like a vicious bully. That's the best tip you'll ever get."

_Huh? _Motormaster frowned, confused. "What are you talking about?"

"That little display of yours earlier," one of the other bouncers said, shaking his head. "You don't assault the customers, Tom."

"He wasn't a customer," Motormaster said, abruptly realizing what they were all so upset about. "He had a fake ID. And he tried to bribe me."

"I know. I saw what happened. And it doesn't matter what he did, you threw your weight around with a kid half your size."

Another one of the bartenders nodded. "So he spat on your foot. Big deal, I've had someone throw their drink in my face. Welcome to the wonderful world of customer service."

Motormaster felt the muscles in his hands tighten and fought an urge to clench them into fists. He didn't care about being outnumbered, but he did care about not being fired his first day on the job. And yet he couldn't just stand there taking slag from humans – humans who seemed determined to make excuses for the little slagger who had tried to slip past their security measures. Where was the _sense_ in that?

"I didn't break anything," he said, speaking quietly because he knew that if he raised his voice it would come out in a roar. "I did my job without hurting him."

The bartender who had watched him earlier folded her arms. "You could have torn his ear off, the way you were yanking on it," she said. "But more than that, you humiliated him and made a scene. Don't you see anything wrong with that?"

"Don't bother," another man said to her. "Man don't want to get it, man won't get it."

The other bartender stepped out from behind the counter. "It's your first day on the job, Tom, so we won't report you. We figure everyone makes mistakes and deserves the right to learn from them – both you and that kid. But if we see you pull something like that again, Jess is gonna hear about it. We clear?"

Motormaster stared at him, thinking that in his true frame he would simply have stepped on the man. Even as a human, he could have broken the bartender in half without much effort – though he supposed that would only make the rest of them call him a bully again. He swallowed hard and thought, _I need this job. I need it to go home, to take my team back home. Once that's done I can drive through this place until there's nothing left standing_.

His list of places to destroy when he regained his alt-mode seemed to be growing steadily longer, but it helped to calm him down a little. With a curt nod, he turned on his heel and strode out.

It took him nearly an hour to get back to the apartment, and when he saw the deli on the corner he automatically veered toward it before he remembered the time and realized it was closed for the night. Motormaster stood in the empty street for the single moment he would allow himself to give in to weariness. Suddenly he didn't even feel like returning to the apartment. Even if his team were awake, which he doubted, they would either be talking or playing cards – _fragging wastes of time!_ – and he wouldn't be included or wanted. Just like it had been at the club.

_Not that I care._ He straightened his shoulders, ignoring the ache in his feet, and headed back to their apartment.


	16. Shifting Gears

_Authors'__ notes : Dead End makes some new friends and finds a job. He's as surprised as you are. (Warnings for dub-con and mild smut.)_

_Hat tip to Fire from Above for guessing Motormaster's future occupation way back in Chapter 10, and a friendly wave to the reader who __got__ a shout-out in this chapter – you know who you are__!_

_- anon_decepticon and QoS/mdperera_

_-Thanks to kookaburra1701 for her support and input!_

* * *

**Crash Course, Chapter 16 : Shifting Gears**

Motormaster was late.

To the other Stunticons, being granted an extra hour or two of freedom from their gestalt leader's tyrannical rule was like being handed a cube of high grade. Breakdown and Wildrider were laughing over their game of cards, and Drag Strip had left for work with a smile on his face. But as the night wore on, Dead End found himself growing increasingly uneasy.

_It's nothing,_ he thought. _Enjoy the reprieve. _

There was no denying their human bodies were fragile – Wildrider's recent injuries were further proof of that – but Motormaster's was larger and stronger than most. Few humans would willingly challenge him, even those who lacked personal knowledge of just how brutal and sadistic Motormaster could be. Anyone foolish enough to try would be inviting a world of pain.

But even so, Dead End couldn't help glancing at their new chronometer with steadily increasing frequency, watching the minutes tick by as one hour turned into two, and two became three.

It was somewhat ironic that they were all still awake. Had Motormaster been home, he'd have ordered them into recharge hours ago. But Dead End couldn't bring himself to move from his spot on the couch. Breakdown wouldn't go to bed without him, and Wildrider hated to be alone, so both of them remained close at hand, playing every variation of human card game they could think of. Not having anything better to do, Dead End joined them.

He couldn't really concentrate on the game, though. If Motormaster returned to find them like this, playing human games instead of recharging, he would most certainly be…displeased. Not having jobs meant they had nowhere to be in the morning, but Motormaster didn't appreciate being reminded of that. He'd made it clear that if they weren't working, they should at least make good use of their idle time.

Dead End debated ordering Breakdown and Wildrider to bed himself, just to minimize the collateral damage. He didn't relish the thought of bearing the brunt of Motormaster's wrath alone, but it was better than the alternative. There were limits to how far Motormaster would push him, lines he wouldn't cross with Dead End that weren't in place for the others.

He checked the clock again. _Nearly 2 am._ Drag Strip would be returning from work within half an hour.

_What then?_ he wondered. A feeling uncomfortably akin to dread welled up in his spark. He didn't know.

_He's just late_, Dead End told himself, refusing to pursue that line of thought any further. _In a few minutes he'll walk through that door and slag us all for wasting valuable time._

As if the very thought had summoned him, Motormaster's heavy tread sounded in the hallway outside. The soft click of the key turning in the lock seemed unnaturally loud in the sudden hush that fell over them.

They looked up just in time to see Motormaster entering the apartment, but looked away again quickly when his forbidding glare swept over them. They waited, tense and wary, for him to do or say something, but Motormaster didn't rebuke them for playing pointless human games at such a late hour, nor offered any explanation for his tardiness. He moved past them without a word, heading for his room.

Breakdown and Wildrider breathed mutual sighs of relief. Dead End frowned, rearranging the cards in his hand. Motormaster paused in the hallway just short of the threshold.

"Dead End."

"Hmm?" Dead End replied absently, glancing up from his cards. Wildrider and Breakdown looked up as well, turning to regard their leader's broad back with wary optics.

Motormaster didn't turn around, nor did he respond. He simply jerked his head in the direction of his room and then stepped inside, closing the door behind him.

"Ah," Dead End said, catching on. He laid down his cards and got to his feet, handing his drink to Breakdown. "Duty calls."

Breakdown and Wildrider exchanged a look. "Do you want us to wait up for you?" Breakdown asked.

"Not necessary," he replied, crossing the room at an unhurried pace. "Finish the game without me."

* * *

Motormaster had already shed his clothes by the time Dead End entered the room and shut the door. He stood waiting by the foot of the bed, his human interface equipment standing at full attention.

Dead End vented a little sigh of resignation and began removing his own clothing, peeling off his shirt and dropping it on the floor. Their bodies may have changed, but some things had obviously remained the same.

Motormaster watched him wordlessly as he stripped to the skin and lay down on the berth, flat on his back with his arms held loosely at his sides. The mattress creaked ponderously beneath Motormaster's weight as he moved to join him.

Dead End lifted his chin as Motormaster settled on top of him, turning his head to one side to avoid being smothered by Motormaster's broad, hairy chestplate. Even in human form Motormaster was remarkably heavy, and exuded heat like a furnace. Even though Dead End was lying completely motionless beneath him, he immediately began to sweat.

Resigned to his fate, Dead End stared up at the water-stained ceiling, hoping Motormaster didn't intend to draw this out any longer than necessary. But for a long moment Motormaster did nothing at all, and Dead End realized belatedly that he probably had no idea how to frag him as a human. Certainly none of the others would have volunteered to show him, making this otherwise familiar scenario doubly awkward.

He could have said no, of course. Motormaster had learned a long time ago that it was pointless to force his cooperation. But he'd found other ways to ensure Dead End's compliance – if he refused, Motormaster would single out one of the others for his attentions and vent his anger on them. If he was feeling particularly malicious, he'd force Dead End to watch.

Venting another sigh, Dead End shifted his hips slightly in a small, halfhearted grind. Fortunately Motormaster caught on quickly, mimicking his movement – uncertainly at first, then with greater confidence – and within a few moments established a rhythm that seemed to work for him.

Dead End stoically endured his efforts, promising himself a visit to the washrack when Motormaster was through. Motormaster smelled of cigarettes, stale perfume and human musk, and Dead End couldn't help wondering where he'd been, and if it had anything to do with why Motormaster had chosen to call on him.

That thought stirred another one, reminding Dead End that only a short time ago he'd been wondering whether Motormaster would return at all. An odd feeling of relief passed through him, leaching some of the tension from his muscles. Suddenly having Motormaster's weight pinning him to the mattress didn't seem quite so unpleasant.

Seized by a peculiar urge, he reached up and laid a hand on Motormaster's arm, sliding it up to rest on his shoulder. The heat of Motormaster's skin and the sensation of solid muscle flexing beneath his fingers was strangely reassuring.

Motormaster stiffened at the touch, pausing in his rhythm to glance down at the hand on his shoulder as if it were some new strange form of life he'd never seen before. Then he turned to look at Dead End, his optics narrowed in suspicion.

Dead End met his gaze with a placid expression, offering neither explanation nor apology. His grip on Motormaster's shoulder tightened marginally.

Motormaster eyed him for a moment, then huffed and resumed his rhythm, his ventilations quickening.

Dead End returned his gaze to the ceiling and once more settled in to wait, noting idly that the largest of the water stains looked vaguely like Ratbat, provided his head and part of his right wing were missing. The mattress creaked.

Motormaster grunted, groping at his leg, and Dead End parted them, allowing Motormaster to slip between his sweat-slickened thighs as he continued to ride him. It should have been revolting, and yet somehow it wasn't.

_That's odd._ Dead End frowned, puzzled by his own response. There was nothing about this encounter that should have remotely appealed to him. As a mech, being pinned to a berth and used by Motormaster was an unpleasant duty he'd grudgingly tolerated for the sake of the team. As a human, it should have been even more repugnant. But for some reason, the extended intimate contact was somehow _comforting_ in a way he'd never associated with an act so inherently physical.

There were no secrets within a gestalt. When you'd been inside another mech's head, personal boundaries became immaterial. No form of physical contact could begin to compare with the overwhelming intimacy of the gestalt link –

_Oh._

_That _was the answer, he realized. The reason why they all seemed to crave physical contact with one another, and why the thought of being separated was so supremely terrifying. The gestalt link had been a reality of their existence from the moment they'd first come online, a constant, unchanging reminder that they were all merely part of a greater whole.

And now that link was gone, leaving them alone inside their own heads in a way they'd never been, striving to push back the aching void of loneliness that came with being _one_ where they had once been _many_. No wonder even Motormaster had finally succumbed to the lure of human interfacing. _This_, Dead End realized, was all they had left to hold on to.

A soft, sorrowful sound escaped his vocalizer even as his body relaxed, his muscles going limp in surrender. It didn't matter that Motormaster was heavy, or hairy, or dripping with sweat. Some part of Dead End _needed_ to feel his presence, regardless of form.

It was galling and somewhat embarrassing to think that for once he didn't _mind_ being used like this, but Dead End took a measure of comfort in the knowledge that Motormaster probably hated it even more. Motormaster had always held himself apart from the rest of them, confident that _they_ needed _him_, not the other way around. But in the absence of the gestalt link, Motormaster could no longer pretend to be an independent entity. Even though he despised all things human, in the end he too had been reduced to this, this sweaty, sticky, distasteful act of human interfacing.

Dead End's suspicions were confirmed when Motormaster finally finished and slumped over him in sated exhaustion. He didn't immediately rise or order Dead End out of his quarters, but instead remained where he was, his face tucked into the space between Dead End's neck and shoulder, breathing heavily.

Dead End indulged him, waiting until Motormaster's ventilations slowed before he spoke.

"How much money do we have?" he asked.

"Not enough," Motormaster replied. His voice was muffled, his breath hot against Dead End's skin. "It's taking too slagging long."

"Perhaps it's time to consider Plan B," he said.

Motormaster pushed himself up onto his elbows to frown at him, his brow furrowing in consternation. "What's Plan B?"

"I don't know," he said, his gaze roving over the ceiling. "Perhaps it's time we came up with one."

Motormaster made a derisive noise. "Helpful as always."

Dead End ignored the jibe. "Wildrider keeps getting fired; the humans think he's a menace. Breakdown can't face another interview. Drag Strip seems to be maintaining his position, but his earnings alone won't be enough."

Motormaster's eyes narrowed. "What about you?"

"I've been looking," he said with a diffident shrug. "But it's pointless without documentation. They all want an ID, or a resume –"

"So write one," Motormaster said. "Use all those big words you're so fond of."

Dead End huffed, rolling his optics. "I suppose you think it's all just coincidence that only Drag Strip has managed to gain employment thus far?"

"So has Wildrider, even if he's too slagging crazy to keep it," Motormaster retorted. "And so have I."

Dead End blinked. "You found work? Doing what?"

"Security," Motormaster said. "At a club. So I don't wanna hear any more excuses."

Dead End stared at him for a long moment, then sighed, turning his head away and letting his hand fall from Motormaster's shoulder. "So that's what you were doing," he said. "And here I thought you were dead."

Motormaster didn't seem to know how to respond to that. For a second it seemed as if he'd forgotten how to breathe. Then he scoffed. "Anytime someone's late, you think they deactivated in a fiery crash. Or are rusting quietly in a ditch somewhere."

Dead End gave him a pointed look, arching a sober eyebrow.

Motormaster hesitated, then lifted himself off of him – _Finally_, Dead End thought – and swung his legs over the side of the bed, sitting up. He reached for the pair of jeans he'd left discarded on the floor and dug into the pocket, extracting a wad of bills and peeling off a twenty. Turning back to Dead End, he held it out to him. "Here. Get yourself one of those human wax jobs Drag Strip was going on about."

Dead End resisted the urge to smirk, knowing Motormaster had no idea what human waxing involved. But he took the money. Motormaster wasn't given to acts of benevolent generosity, and Dead End wasn't about to question this one.

After a quick trip to the washrack, he headed back to the room he shared with Breakdown, his clothes folded neatly over one arm. He was mildly surprised to find it unoccupied since he hadn't heard voices from the common room. Putting his clothes away, he turned toward the empty bed…and frowned.

He didn't want to sleep there alone.

_At least now I __know__ why_, he thought as he returned to the hallway and quietly pushed open the door to Wildrider and Drag Strip's room. Both Wildrider and Drag Strip were in it, tangled together on the bed in a sprawl of limbs with Breakdown in the middle, all of them deep in recharge.

Shaking his head, Dead End joined them, squeezing in alongside Drag Strip on the overcrowded mattress. Draping an arm across him, he offlined his optics and let the soft sounds of their quiet ventilations lull him into recharge.

* * *

He was beginning to think the universe was conspiring against him.

Dead End had spent the better part of the day roaming the city looking for work, but once again his efforts had failed to come to fruition. And he couldn't understand _why_.

Drag Strip and Motormaster had both found work. Wildrider may have had trouble _remaining_ employed, but he had being _hired_ almost down to a science. Breakdown had his paranoia and malapropisms as an excuse for his failure to find a job, but Dead End lacked neither confidence nor erudition.

And he'd done everything he could think of to bolster his chances of success. He'd groomed himself meticulously, used the money Motormaster had given him to supplement his wardrobe with a black blazer of the sort human employers were said to like. He'd even typed up a resume at the local employment center – _1985 to Present: __Conflict Resolution, __Navigational Data Analysis. Duties included giving practical advice that was largely ignored and taking the blame for __others'__ failures. References attached. – __yet none of it seemed __to__work. _

Worst of all, the continuous rejections day after day were beginning to wear on him, to chip away at his normally unshakeable self-esteem. Dead End knew he couldn't be faulted for not having identification or the other forms of paperwork most humans had given that he hadn't been human up until a week ago, but some of his potential employers hadn't asked for those things. They'd simply looked at his resume, asked him a few questions, and then made vague statements about how he "wouldn't be a good fit," or "probably wouldn't be happy" working there.

Those remarks were the ones Dead End found most troubling, the ones that sowed the first tiny seeds of doubt within him. He was certain he'd accounted for all of the external obstacles preventing him from acquiring a job – at least the ones he _could_ account for – but lately he'd begun to suspect there was something about him _personally_ that was barring him from success.

_Perhaps it's because I'm so hideously ugly_, he thought, catching a glimpse of his reflection in a store window and pausing to examine it. He hated his human face. The pale skin and maroon hair were a mocking reminder of his former paint scheme, and his optics were the faded green of the money they didn't have.

The door to the shop opened and a pair of humans exited, bringing with them the rich scent of coffee that wafted from within. His fuel tank made that peculiar rumbling noise Dead End had come to associate with the need to refuel. He felt in his pocket for the pathetic handful of bills he had remaining, money he'd saved to spare himself a long walk back to the apartment at the end of the day.

_Perhaps just one cup of coffee_, he thought. He had enough money for that.

A set of tiny bells jingled as he entered the shop and looked around. It appeared to be some form of eating establishment, but not a deli like the one near their base, or one of the fancier restaurants where he'd sought employment. It was smaller, and darker, the air hazy with cigarette smoke from the handful of human patrons clustered around tiny tables packed in close together. It seemed like a curious blend of restaurant, bakery and library; shelves of books lined the walls in-between faded chairs and couches, and at the far end stood a glass counter displaying a variety of baked goods.

And coffee. Nearly every human present had a cup in their hand, and the scent of it was unmistakable. Dead End approached the counter and stared in bewilderment at the massive blackboard behind it listing the options available – _what on Earth is_ chai? he wondered.

"Can I get you something?" the woman behind the counter asked.

"Coffee," he replied.

She grinned. "You're gonna need to be a little more specific than that. What kind of coffee?"

"Black coffee?" he ventured.

"Regular or espresso?"

Dead End blinked. "Just coffee," he said. "In a cup."

The woman's eyes twinkled with amusement. "One coffee, coming right up."

* * *

Once he'd gotten his coffee, Dead End settled into one of the unoccupied couches, perusing the titles on the nearby bookshelf as he drank. Some of them he'd already read, and a few others looked intriguing, but he knew he couldn't remain long enough to read any of them, and he didn't have enough money left to purchase one.

_Motormaster would probably slag me if I did,_ he consoled himself. He retrieved his human visor from his jacket pocket and slipped it on. Indoors he'd discovered they made it difficult to see, but wearing them put him more at ease. With that and the coffee – which was surprisingly good – he was able to relax and enjoy his momentary respite.

"Man, I swear the entire universe is out to get me!"

Dead End looked up as the human who'd spoken flopped down on the couch beside him, dropping a bag full of books on the floor at his feet. He was clad in black jeans and a tshirt with the word _bauhaus_ printed across the front, and carrying a cup of coffee. He didn't appear to be addressing Dead End specifically, but there were no other humans nearby.

"It probably is," he said. "That seems to be its nature."

"Yeah, no kidding," the human replied. "I lent my PolySci textbook to this guy in my class, and now he's saying he _lost_ it. Then my roommate goes and spills his beer all over my course notes. And finals are next week! I'm screwed."

_I'm an alien robot trapped in a human body__, _Dead End thought,_ and no one will give me a job. _Out loud he said, "Perhaps you'll contract a terminal disease before then."

The human nodded, taking a sip of his coffee. "Yeah, like cancer or something. That'd be good." He frowned. "No, wait – that could take months to kill me. My exam's next week."

"A fatal accident, perhaps?" Dead End suggested. "Fire, or an explosion?"

"Food poisoning?" the human replied. "Drown in the bathtub?"

"A fall from the roof of a very high building," Dead End volunteered.

"Nah, too messy," the human said. "I'd end up splattered all over the sidewalk. I wanna look good when I die."

Dead End turned to look at him in surprise. "So do I."

The human grinned, regarding him with renewed interest. "So what's your name?"

"Dead End," he replied automatically, and then cursed himself for his own stupidity. He'd answered without thinking, forgetting to use his human alias. His mind raced, trying to come up with a plausible reason why he'd introduced himself with such a clearly non-human designation.

"Wow, that's really cool," the human said. "I tried to get my friends to call me Macabre once, but they just said I was being stupid." He shrugged sheepishly. "My real name's Trevor."

"Mine is…Dan," Dead End replied, inwardly breathing a sigh of relief.

Trevor smiled, his cheeks flushing pink. "I like Dead End better."

"So do I," Dead End replied. _Motormaster will slag me if he ever finds out_. "But you should probably call me Dan."

Trevor opened his mouth to reply, but was interrupted by the raised voices of a couple who'd been conversing at a table not far from them.

"How can you say starving _children_ aren't important?" the man demanded. He was rather scruffy-looking in Dead End's opinion, and appeared not to have shaved in days.

"I'm not saying they're _not_ important," the woman said, tossing her long, straight hair over her shoulder. "I'm just saying the hole in ozone layer is _more_ important!"

"Some mother you'd be," the man replied with a sneer. "You'd let innocent children go hungry!"

"It won't matter if they're starving if they can't _breathe_," she retorted. "The hole in the ozone layer affects everyone! If it gets any bigger, the whole planet could die!"

Dead End huffed in annoyance. He heard enough yelling back at their base. "This planet is only one of billions," he said. "Nothing more than a speck of dust in the universe. If it died, none of the others would care. They wouldn't even notice it was gone."

The man and woman turned to stare at him – _everyone_ was staring at him, Dead End realized. The other customers who'd been watching the couple fight were now all looking at him.

"Whoa, man," a male wearing a black turtleneck said. "That's like…_deep_."

"See, that's exactly what I'm talking about," said the woman with the long hair. "You have to look at the big picture!"

"Tell us more," added a woman sharing a table with the man in the turtleneck.

Dead End blinked, perplexed. Motormaster would have just told him to shut up, but every human in the shop was nodding in agreement. Even Trevor was staring up at him with something like awe. "You want me to say…more?"

"Yeah, man," the man in the turtleneck said. "Lay it on us."

* * *

He'd told them more. He'd waxed philosophical about the overall futility of life for over an hour, and they'd hung on his every word, ordering more coffee for themselves and occasionally for him as well. Dead End couldn't believe it. He was talking, and people were actually _listening._

They begged him not to leave, and Trevor even asked for his phone number, but Dead End knew he couldn't afford to linger. There were only a few short hours left in the day, and he still hadn't found a job. He didn't savor the notion of returning to the base to report yet another failure to Motormaster. He was quite certain any goodwill he might have earned with his gestalt leader would quickly vanish when Motormaster heard _that_ news.

So he made his apologies and prepared to depart, much to the disappointment of his inexplicable group of admirers. But before he left, he decided to pay one last visit to the counter to pick up a business card. He didn't trust his human processor to retain the shop's address, and he had a feeling he might like to return here someday.

"You really had that crowd riveted," the woman behind the counter said as he neared it. "I'm sorry you have to leave. I hope you'll come visit us again sometime."

"Perhaps I will, once I've found work," he replied.

"You're looking for a job?" she asked.

"Unfortunately, yes."

"Well, I don't know what kind of work you're looking for," she said, "but I'd hire you in a hot minute."

Dead End arched a brow in surprise. "What would the job entail?"

"Making drinks and running the register, mostly," she said. "But really your job would be to do what you were doing just now – keeping the customers in the shop so they'll order more coffee."

It sounded too good to be true, which meant it probably was. _Might as well get it over with, _he thought. "I don't have any documentation."

"Oh," she said, just as Dead End had known she would. But then she glanced around, and spoke in a lower register. "You foreign?" she asked. "I noticed you have an accent."

His former frame had come from Germany, and Dead End supposed being sparked on Cybertron made him as foreign as he could be. So he nodded.

"No green card or work visa, I take it?"

He shook his head. He wasn't even sure what those things were.

She considered for a moment, glancing around again. "Well, I guess I could pay you under the table," she said, her voice dropping to a whisper. "But I can't offer you any benefits, and I can only pay you in cash."

For a second Dead End was too stunned to speak. But he recovered quickly. "Cash will do nicely."

She beamed brightly at that. "Then I guess that makes me your new boss. My name's Paula, what's yours?"

He wasn't about to make the same mistake twice. "Dan Deed."

"Welcome aboard, Dan," Paula said. "You know how to make a latte?"


	17. Driving a Hard Bargain

_Chapter summary : Motormaster takes a detour that just may be the short way home. _

_-anon decepticon and QoS_

_Thanks also to kookaburra1701 for her input and support!_

* * *

**Chapter 17 : Driving a Hard Bargain**

The newspaper sported a picture of Megatron on the front page, so Motormaster bought a copy before he headed for the deli. Once he got there, he sat down at a table near the window, forgetting about food or coffee for the moment. Sunlight slanted over the article as he read it.

The Decepticons had engaged the Autobots in a minor skirmish in Brazil and had defeated them, which was good news – and Motormaster felt sure it had been a devastating battle, since the human media was likely to downplay any 'con victory. _But Brazil,_ he thought, _so far away._ There was no chance that Megatron would coincidentally decide to attack San Francisco and come within shouting distance of his most loyal warrior.

He wondered what they had been fighting over, but the article didn't say. Motormaster would have given anything to read that Megatron had delivered an ultimatum to the heads of the worlds' major governments, swearing to lay waste to their countries unless his elite gestalt was returned unharmed and in any form.

"Hello," Val said. He looked up, startled, and only just managed to stop himself from turning the paper over to hide the article. "Haven't seen you in a while."

Motormaster shrugged. That was another response he'd found useful when a human said something meaningless.

She set a cup of coffee down before him and settled down in the seat opposite. "Didn't the job work out?"

"I got it, if that's what you're asking." Motormaster had done his work obediently if resentfully after the first day, but he felt as though he was under constant watch from the other staff and he didn't speak to any of them unless it was absolutely necessary.

"Then what's wrong?" Val said. "Didn't you like Jess?"

Motormaster grimaced and sipped his coffee.

"A lot of men find her very attractive," Val continued, as if to herself.

He nearly choked on his coffee. "Attractive? Her?"

"You didn't?"

Motormaster snorted. "She's scrawny."

One corner of Val's mouth went up. "What kind of…" she began, and then her voice trailed off as she looked at something beyond his shoulder. The glance turned to a blank stare and Motormaster twisted around, wondering if the robber had returned.

Instead he saw Wildrider and Drag Strip standing just outside the window, their faces all but mashed to the glass as they gawked at him. Wildrider gave him a cheery wave, but Drag Strip was watching Val, a slow smirk spreading across his face. He turned and whispered in Wildrider's ear, theatrically holding one hand against his face as if to make certain Motormaster wouldn't hear.

Wildrider's jaw dropped open. "Boss?" he mouthed, and gestured rapidly at Val.

"Get the frag out of here!" Motormaster snapped and started up. The two of them immediately fled, Drag Strip in second place for once since he couldn't run as fast in the high heels he favored. Motormaster debated giving chase, but decided against it – those two morons had to return to the apartment sooner or later. He could take it out on them then, at his leisure, instead of abandoning his coffee. He sank back into his chair, grumbling.

"Friends of yours?" Val looked bemused.

"No, we're…" Motormaster considered. "We share an apartment."

"Oh." Evidently that had been the right thing to say, because she nodded in understanding. "Yeah, I had an annoying roommate once too."

_Just the one?_ Motormaster thought. "Annoying isn't the word. Bunch of idiots."

"How many more are there?" Val said. He looked at her sharply and she raised her optic ridges. "You said a bunch. Bunch usually means… well, more than two."

She might have been a human, but at least she wasn't stupid. "Four," Motormaster said reluctantly – he supposed being silent would have looked suspicious, and he doubted she would be able to tell who they were from just their number.

"Wow, that's a lot." Val smoothed out a crease in her apron. "Though I guess it keeps the rent down. My roommate moved to Albuquerque a month ago, but I haven't sublet the place yet. It's peaceful having it all to myself."

"Yeah." Motormaster finished his coffee, thinking of his quarters back on the ship. Was someone else using his desk now, reclining on his berth? _No_, he thought, pushing the sudden homesickness away. There hadn't been enough time for Megatron to declare them dead and have their rooms reassigned. Motormaster would never have willingly abandoned his leader, so he felt certain Megatron had not given up on them either.

He had to be certain of that. Even though Dead End had found a job as well, his earnings were small. Motormaster was beginning to realize that there was a good reason why human employers paid "under the table" – so they could get away with hiring people for less money. So his team's lives as humans still stretched on into a bleak, apparently limitless future. He thought of devising what Dead End had referred to as a "Plan B", but nothing came to mind.

Val fidgeted, and the movement drew his attention back to her. He crumpled his cup and wished he could crush his frustration just as easily.

"You okay?" Val said, tilting her head a little to one side.

"No," Motormaster said brusquely.

"Want to talk about it?"

He wouldn't have talked to his own team about how much he longed for his home, his frame and the reassurance of Megatron's presence, so he certainly wasn't going to mention it to Val. He started to shake his head, but then he remembered that she had helped him find a job. What if she also knew a quicker way to get the money his team needed?

Of the five of them, Breakdown knew the most about human money and the best ways to get it, so it hadn't occurred to Motormaster to question his recommendation or seek other opinions. He rarely if ever trusted anyone outside his team anyway. But now he wondered if someone who had been human all her life might know a little more than Breakdown did.

"What would you do if you needed five thousand dollars fast?" he said.

Val blinked. "Is that what you're worried about? You need five thousand dollars?"

Motormaster nodded. Even with three of them working, they seemed no closer to the computer than they had been when they started out – each time he thought their savings were increasing, some new expense popped up like a damage warning. Rent, phone installation, electricity bill, it was never-ending, and their total savings now amounted to seven hundred and thirty-nine dollars. According to Dead End, they would have a better chance of contacting the _Nemesis_ if they threw messages sealed in bottles into San Francisco Bay.

"Five thousand dollars." Val's brow furrowed. "Well, if I needed that I'd try getting a loan. I could use my pickup as collateral."

Motormaster understood "pickup", but the other words were less familiar. "A loan," he repeated. "You'd borrow the money? From whom?"

"My bank. United Commercial."

"Would they lend me the money?"

Val hesitated. "Not unless you had an account with them. And a credit history. And maybe something to put up as collateral."

_Great_. The only thing Motormaster owned that was of any value was the shotgun, and he didn't plan on giving that up. He slumped back in his chair, his fists tightening futilely, and turned his head to stare at the side of the counter before too much of his frustration could show in his face.

"Okay, so that's not an option," Val said. "And I'm guessing you don't have any… family who might lend it to you, either." He heard her tap her fork lightly against the surface of the table. "It's not for someone who's sick, is it?"

Becoming human qualified as a serious, possibly fatal condition for a Decepticon, so he looked back at her again. "Would we be able to get five thousand dollars if it was?"

"Well, maybe," Val said. "If it's money for surgery or chemotherapy or something, there are organizations that could help. But you'd better be able to prove it."

"Forget it," Motormaster said, and pushed his chair back. _What a stupid waste of time._

Val sighed. "I'm sorry I didn't say what you wanted to hear, but there's really no other way to get a quick five thousand. At least, no way that's safe."

Motormaster had got to his feet, but he paused. "So there are unsafe ways?"

"Well, yeah. Like a payday loan, but that'll gouge you with the interest. Those places are almost as bad as loan sharks."

Motormaster sat down again. He still didn't understand all of what Val was saying, but the warning tone in her voice made him curious, and what did she mean about loan sharks? He'd seen those swim past the _Nemesis _a few times_, _but he hadn't known they were connected with human money somehow.

"Could I get five thousand dollars from a shark?" he said, wondering how he was going to catch one.

Val said nothing for a moment, only passing the tip of her tongue over her lower lip as she studied him. "Tom," she said finally, "you're better off not even thinking about that. Loan sharks'll lend you the money, yeah, but they'll charge you killer interest. And people like that are always part of the mob."

_Oh, so it's just a fancy name for a human_. Motormaster felt better at once; finally he was close to getting the five thousand dollars they needed in one easy delivery, rather than in slow trickles that seemed to drain back out again more quickly.

"Where can I meet one?" he said.

"I don't know!" For some reason, Val seemed annoyed by the question. "And you're not _listening_ to me! Don't you understand, those people are dangerous-"

Motormaster reached across the table and took the fork from her. Holding the handle in one hand and the tines in the other, he twisted it in half.

Val just looked at him, her eyes narrowed. "Fine." She got up. "You've made your point. Go do whatever you like, and good luck."

* * *

By the time Motormaster arrived at their temporary base, he knew what to do. If loan sharks were disreputable humans who operated outside the law, he'd need to use a similar human to contact them. Of course, his entire team qualified as disreputable, but since they hardly knew anyone outside of their workplaces he'd have to use a human with connections.

He made his way through the steam-filled kitchen where someone was either cooking a meal or trying to vaporize the paint off the walls, grabbed Wildrider by the back of the neck and hustled him out. "That human who gets you into motorcycle races," he said when he could breathe and see again.

"Marcelo?" Wildrider said.

"Whatever his designation is. Find out whether he knows any loan sharks, and if he can arrange a meeting with one for me."

Wildrider's eyes brightened at once. Motormaster normally disapproved of his visiting that human, because even though Wildrider usually returned with a couple of hundred at least, he also came back with cuts and bruises and once, a sprained wrist. More annoyingly, he always smelled of burned leaves afterwards and tended to eat all the leftovers in the fridge.

That evening was no exception, but he brought back a folded note for Motormaster. It said that a Mr. Ominsky would be free to meet with him in the Fog City Diner in two days, and gave a time.

"And there's somethin' else Marce said." Wildrider slurred the words slightly, then giggled at his own pronunciation. Motormaster barely controlled an urge to slap him. "What was it? Uhhh…"

"Come here and let me refresh your memory," Motormaster said, getting up from the couch.

"Nono, I got it." Wildrider stumbled back anyway. "He said, be respectful."

That was enough to make Motormaster pause for a moment. "Respectful?" he repeated. In all his life, albeit not a long one, he had never been ordered to be respectful to anyone. He had sworn his loyalty to Megatron, which was what mattered most to him, and he ignored the other 'cons as long as they stayed out of his way.

Wildrider nodded. "Yeah. Like, don't torque him off."

Motormaster set his teeth, but he saw the sense in that. If this Ominsky was willing to lend him money without placing any restrictions on it, he supposed he could play Autobot for one evening. So two days later, thankfully during the day when he didn't have to work, he took a bus to the Fog City Diner where a waiter showed him to a private booth. Two men were already seated there, but the taller of the two got up to make room for him and then moved to the bar nearby, staying within his line of sight.

Motormaster sat down. The man opposite him was plump and well-dressed. Rings on his fingers glittered as he closed a menu.

"Grilled scallops with corn and asparagus," he said to the waiter, who murmured an affirmation, took the menu and left. The man pressed a folded napkin to his lips and looked at Motormaster.

"Mr. Morter?" he said. At Motormaster's nod, he continued. "I hear you're looking for some help."

"Yeah. I need five thousand dollars."

"I see." Mr. Ominsky broke off a piece of bread and buttered it carefully. "And you're looking for a business arrangement to raise those funds?"

Motormaster was starting to feel hungry, especially since there seemed to be nothing on the table except for Mr. Ominsky's food, which he could hardly take unless he wanted to antagonize the man. "I thought you lent people money," he said. "If that's what you do, I want to borrow the five thousand from you."

Mr. Ominsky paused in mid-chew. "I'm certainly open to discussing it, Mr. Morter," he said after a moment. He dabbed a trace of melted butter from his lip. "If we came to an agreement, the interest would be fifteen per cent, compounded weekly. You would send that amount or more to a certain address each week."

_Sure I will_, Motormaster thought, struggling not to grin. Once they had their computer and contacted the base and got their real frames back, he would never have to see this slimy fragger again. _And if he really torques me off, I'll find five thousand dollars and make him swallow it, note by note, before I run him over. _

He realized Mr. Ominsky was waiting for him to reply. "Yeah," he said. "Sure."

Mr. Ominsky pushed a notebook across the table towards him. "I'd like your address, phone number and workplace, please."

Motormaster eyed the notebook with suspicion. "Why?"

"I like to know a little about people I do business with. If you don't like it, find a bank."

Fuming, Motormaster wrote out the information, shoving the notebook back across the table so hard that it nearly knocked the man's wine glass over. "Anything else?"

Mr. Ominsky's eyebrows – the only parts of him that were thin – crawled up his forehead, but he said nothing as he slipped the notebook back into a pocket and finished the wine. "If I decide to do business with you, you'll be contacted in two or three days' time."

"What?" Motormaster couldn't believe that he had jumped through those hoops only to walk away with nothing. He was on his feet before he could think twice. Mr. Ominsky stiffened, and the man who had been sitting in his place slid off the bar stool, staring at Motormaster.

_A guard. _And he was in a public place where he couldn't afford to slag either one of them. Motormaster managed to force the word "Fine" through his clamped-shut jaws and got a cold nod from Mr. Ominsky before he left.

He'd said nothing to his team, in case the meeting turned out to be a waste of time, and Wildrider seemed to have forgotten all about it. But the phone call came a few days later, arranging a meeting in the same restaurant around noon, and that time Motormaster was careful to eat before he started out. He knew by then that his team's lunch of boiled potatoes was nowhere near the kind of meal that Mr. Ominsky would indulge in, but it didn't matter. Very soon they would be drinking high-grade energon again.

He returned home just before three o'clock, trying his best to keep a smile of triumph off his face as he let himself in. Breakdown sat at the table reading a book and Drag Strip was lounging on the couch with a stupid dreamy look on his face. Wildrider sprawled on the floor nearby, having taken advantage of Drag Strip's distraction to play with both his mirror and the various colored sticks and powders Drag Strip liked to apply to his face before going to work.

They all looked up as he entered, but Motormaster said nothing as he shut the door. He went over to the table and stood there, waiting until Drag Strip sat up to stare warily at him over the back of the couch. Wildrider scrambled up too, and Breakdown closed his book very quietly, glancing at the other two as if to ask if they knew what was going on.

Motormaster felt one corner of his mouth curve up. It felt wonderful to bring home good news for a change, and suddenly he knew what Drag Strip enjoyed about being the center of attention. Prolonging the moment, he slid a hand into his pocket and drew out a bundle of banknotes, then dropped it casually on the table. It made a solid, satisfying _thud_.

"Get that computer," he said to Breakdown.

* * *

_Author's note : The loan shark, Mr. Ominsky, is a minor character in Arthur Hailey's novel "The Moneychangers". Facing mounting interest charges (and other consequences) of borrowing money from him, another character is desperate enough to steal from his employers... and gets caught. I enjoyed that subplot so much that I borrowed Mr. Ominsky for this story. And yes, he's just as nasty here as he is in the Hailey novel._

_- QoS_


	18. Checkered Flag

_Chapter summary : Drag Strip gets some Good News and some Bad News. _

_Author's note : We've noticed we have a lot of readers, but comparatively few reviewers, so here's a question for anyone who's been reading but hasn't commented yet: Are you enjoying the fic and just don't have time to review, or is there something we can do to improve it? We're open to any kind of feedback and would love to hear from you. _

_-anon_decepticon and QoS/mdperera_

_Thanks to Kookaburra1701 for input and support!

* * *

_

**Chapter 18 : Checkered Flag**

Scrapper stepped back and surveyed his handiwork. "Transformation sequence?"

"Online." There was a whir and slide of rapid movement.

"Forcefield?"

_Ssszt_.

"Good." The satisfaction in Scrapper's voice made it almost a purr. "Very good." He paused, optic band fixed on Drag Strip. "Do you have a moment before we start work on the rest of your team? I'd like to show you something."

Drag Strip shrugged in an accommodating way and followed Scrapper out of the repair bay into an adjoining room. Lights came on at a touch, revealing a gleaming sculpture on a pedestal in the center of the room. Drag Strip stopped in his tracks.

It combined his human form with his alt-mode, blending the two in a balance that was alien and yet harmonious – perhaps because the proportions of both were so perfect – with lines as fluid as mercury. One human arm of the statue was extended as if in a graceful dance, but the head was turned to look down at the racecar from which its torso emerged. The sensual lips curved in acknowledgment and acceptance, and Drag Strip felt his own mouth move in a reflection of that smile.

"It's beautiful," he murmured.

"Yes," Scrapper said, though he wasn't looking at the sculpture.

Drag Strip turned to face him. "You made that." He was aware of the other Constructicons edging into the room as well, but he didn't look away from Scrapper. "I feel like you've touched my frame without my knowing about it."

Scrapper nodded slowly. "I did that before you were sparked, too. I've wanted to do it again ever since, but with you there." His optic band burned. "Do you want that, Drag Strip? To feel my hands on you like I was sculpting you all over again?"

"To feel all our hands?" Hook pressed in close.

"And mouths." Bonecrusher flicked his glossa over his upper lip.

"If you'd like that," Scavenger murmured.

Drag Strip grinned. "Sure, but why don't we take this one at a time?"

The Constructicons grinned back. Then they transformed in smooth unison and anything he said in response was drowned out in a slam of massive components coming together with shattering force. Within seconds Devastator stood before him, a single entity reaching down to pick him up.

A key turned in a lock with a sharp _click_, jolting Drag Strip completely awake. He blinked and shook his head sharply, wondering where that bit with Devastator had come from. That had been weird, especially since his favorite part of that dream was carefully selecting one of the Constructicons, who would then proceed to show his gratitude at having been singled out.

He glanced at the front door as Motormaster entered. _Figures, even a fantasy turns bad with him around_._ And what happened to my makeup kit?_

Motormaster strode to the table and there was an ominous silence. Drag Strip decided to look for his makeup later and peeked over the back of the couch, wondering if Breakdown was going to be slagged or fragged. He couldn't think of anything Breakdown had done to deserve either, but sometimes that was irrelevant.

Motormaster's mouth curled into a half-smile that looked genuinely unsettling. Drag Strip fought an urge to cringe, and Breakdown looked as though he wanted to dive under the table. Then a wad of cash thicker than a phone directory thumped down before him.

"Get that computer," Motormaster said.

Drag Strip felt his mouth drop open, and Breakdown picked up the money between his thumbs and forefingers, riffling through the stack. "Where did you get all this?" he said.

Motormaster shrugged. "Borrowed it. And I already counted it. C'mon, get dressed and let's go buy the computer."

"Did you get it from that loan shark?" Wildrider said. "Can I come too?"

"Yes. No." Motormaster shoved the money into his pocket as Breakdown flung his clothes on at speed. Drag Strip took advantage of the distraction to rescue his makeup, looking at himself sadly in the little mirror as Motormaster and Breakdown left.

He liked his job and now he would never be able to command that kind of attention and appreciation again. The club even had a poster advertising his presence – "Come see the Yellowjacket's Sting!" – and every time he took the stage, people wanted more of him. Drag Strip still disdained human interfacing, but he was fine with human yearning being directed his way.

_If I'd known it was all going to end so soon, I wouldn't even have bothered waxing_.

He gave up on experimenting with the eyeliner and tried another fantasy, this time one where Soundwave locked them both into the command room. But it was difficult even for someone of his intelligence to get Soundwave's speech patterns to sound both accurate and passionately tormented. And just when he thought he had succeeded, Wildrider slipped an ice cube down the back of his neck, commenting that he looked all "hot and bothered". They were tussling on the floor when Dead End came back from work, and as Wildrider was fending off punches while trying to tell him about the computer, Motormaster and Breakdown returned with their arms full of boxes printed with the Compaq logo.

"We got it!" Breakdown announced. Drag Strip hadn't seen him smile so happily as a mech, let alone as a human.

Dead End turned to face them. "How did you get the money so fast?"

"Never mind that now," Motormaster said. "Clear the table and move it against the wall. Not that one, the one with the sockets! Drag Strip, get up and start opening these." He put down the box he carried and wiped sweat from his forehead.

Brushing dust off his clothes, Drag Strip obeyed in a resentful silence while Wildrider moved the table and told Dead End about how he had found the loan shark. Breakdown was busy unwrapping components and plugging them in, but Dead End listened to the story with his usual expression of glum skepticism and said, "So he expects his money back with substantial interest?"

"He can expect all that and a can of wax," Motormaster said. "Now that we have the computer, all we have to do is contact the base and get our frames back."

The computer was just beginning to boot up, but for the first time Breakdown looked away from it, and when he cleared his throat Motormaster glanced down at him. "Um," he began. "It might take a little time before I get through to the base."

Drag Strip perked up at that, and Motormaster frowned. "How much time?"

Breakdown swallowed. "See, the network on the _Nemesis_ only recognizes incoming signals as long as they're linked to Decepticon bases and communicators, to keep the Autobots and humans from tapping into our system. That means I'll have to write a pogrom – I mean, a program to—"

"I said, _how much time?_"

"Um." Breakdown took a step back as if trying to put the computer between himself and Motormaster. "I can't really say until I've tried out the program, but it shouldn't be much longer than a week."

Motormaster's scowl deepened, but when he didn't either hit or insult Breakdown, Drag Strip knew he was more annoyed than furious. That wasn't much time, though. Perhaps before then he could persuade one of his more ardent fans to take some pictures of him, so he would always have those to remember how graceful and eye-catching he had been as a human.

"In a week's time, we'll owe seven hundred and fifty dollars in interest," Dead End said.

"So what?" Motormaster said. "I've got a shotgun, remember? If that human gives me any slag about the interest I'll blow his stupid head off. Get to work, Breakdown. Wildrider, start din… no, wait, we can eat out now that we don't have to keep saving money for the computer."

Drag Strip had to restrain himself from clutching instinctively at the pocket where he kept his money. He had no objections to food better than Wildrider's attempts at cooking, but he would willingly eat what Breakdown called "mushed potatoes" if it meant having more money left over for clothes and makeup.

"Economically, we should continue as we've done so far," Dead End said. "We still have to pay bills, and if we fail to do so we'll have several other displeased humans to deal with. And the police may notice if they all expire in a hail of shotgun pellets."

Motormaster's mouth twisted. "So we go on working?"

Drag Strip heaved a sigh and let his shoulders slump. "I guess we have no choice. What a drag coefficient." He started to shake his head in resignation, but then realized everyone else was looking at him. Motormaster's eyes narrowed to purple slivers, but he only made a disgusted sound and told them all to get out of his sight.

Inwardly rejoicing, Drag Strip disappeared into his room to prepare his outfit (and a new routine) for that night. He had no objections to becoming a mech again, of course, but there was nothing wrong with enjoying his life as a human in the meantime.

Especially since things at the club got better by the night. Gaby approved of the wax job, liked the manicure and praised the makeup. She also suggested he experiment with different clothes – a feather boa or fake shackles – although Drag Strip insisted that whatever he wore, it had to include the Perfect Blazer. Breakdown kept tapping away at the computer, and as the days went by Drag Strip began to seriously consider asking him to purposely slag up the program to allow him a little more time to continue dazzling the humans. He only decided against it because he knew Breakdown would have to answer to Motormaster for any delays.

Nine days after they had bought the computer, Drag Strip rolled out of bed one morning and scrambled for the washracks before anyone else could get there. Afterward he brewed a cup of chamomile tea and plopped down on the sofa to try the new makeup he had bought. It looked like gold dust – Champagne Crystals, the label said –and went perfectly with his deep brown eyeshadow. He outlined his eyes, applied mascara and turned around when he heard Dead End come out of his bedroom.

"How do I look?" he said, turning his face from side to side.

Breakdown looked up from the computer. "Ephemeral," he said, and returned to his work.

"I think you mean effeminate," Dead End said, heading for the washracks.

Drag Strip folded his arms. "Hey, a lot of people wear makeup!"

"Yes. They're called 'women'." Dead End barely dodged a high-heeled boot and disappeared into the washracks.

_Moron,_ Drag Strip thought as he sat back down and picked up his mirror. _What would he know about looking good as a human? I was the one who got hired first, and it wasn't because I could use big fancy words._ He returned to his experimentation, trying to see if he could make his eyes "pop".

The tapping of computer keys and the rush of water in the 'racks were a familiar, soothing white noise in the background. The phone had rung several times the day before, which had distracted Drag Strip from his new dance routine, but it was silent now. Motormaster went out to buy more food. Wildrider had had one of his hyperactive nights and had only fallen asleep shortly before sunrise, so he was still in bed.

There was a knock on the door.

Drag Strip turned. No one ever visited them, not even the landlord – Doug had come by once for some kind of inspection when only Wildrider had been home, and hadn't returned since. Breakdown glanced warily in the direction of the door but seemed disinclined to answer it, so Drag Strip strolled over and pulled it open.

Two humans looked at him with timid interest. One was male and the other female, but both were nicely dressed – the male in a buttoned shirt and striped tie and the female in a plaid skirt with a ribbon around her blond ponytail. Drag Strip looked her over, rated her as a six on his one-to-ten scale, and wondered if she was a fan of his.

"Hello," the male said. He carried a leatherbound book printed with a gilt plus sign. "My name's Jeff Snyder and she's Mandy Gray. We were wondering if we could have a minute of your time."

Drag Strip grinned at Mandy. "Oh, I last _much_ longer than that."

"What?" She looked puzzled.

"C'mon in." Maybe it was an interview? Drag Strip imagined himself being written up in the local newspaper, perhaps even bumping Megatron off the front page. He held the door open for them, and heard rapid footsteps from inside that he guessed was Breakdown making a hasty escape before anyone could see him. That was fine by him; the fans weren't there for Breakdown, after all.

Jeff and Mandy sat down on the couch while Drag Strip perched on the coffee table at an angle that gave him a good view of Mandy's legs. She didn't have any makeup on, though he supposed that was what humans called "fresh-faced". Jeff glanced around the living room, his gaze pausing on the bullet holes and the boot lying by the door to the washracks before he looked back at Drag Strip and cleared his throat.

"Um, what's your name?" he said.

Drag Strip stared back at him blankly; how could reporters or fans not know his name? Were these just ordinary people, then? Were they lost and looking for directions?

"Sid Pragt," he said, feeling the smile of anticipation drain off his face. Thank Primus neither Breakdown nor Dead End had seen any of that. He could throw these two out without any of his teammates being any the wiser.

Mandy smiled tentatively. "Hi, Sid."

She was still cute, but Drag Strip felt like downgrading her to a five. "What do you people want?" he said.

Jeff leaned forward a little. "Sid, we were wondering if you had found Jesus."

Drag Strip blinked. "Who's that?" Was it a puppy, maybe? He knew animals sometimes wandered away from their owners.

"Jesus is a wonderful person," Mandy said earnestly. "He is also-"

"Lost, yeah. I figured that out." Drag Strip pulled one knee up to his chest, resting his bare foot on the coffee table._ I need a pedicure_. "Is there a reward? 'Cause if there is, I'll bet I could find him before anyone else does."

"No, no," Jeff said. "Jesus died for your sins!"

Drag Strip lowered his leg slowly. Were they trying to pin some human's murder on him? Had they been expecting him to find the corpse for them so they could frame him for the crime?

"I don't know what you're talking about," he said, wondering whether or not it would be a good thing if Motormaster came home at that moment. "And I've got to get ready for work, so you should leave."

"Sorry," Mandy said. 'We didn't mean to take up too much of your time, Sid. And it was really nice to meet you." She held out her hand for him to shake. "Uh… what is it you do?"

"I'm a stripper."

Jeff had been starting to get up from the couch, but he froze in mid-rise. Mandy jerked her hand back as if she had touched a hot stove.

"A stripper?" Jeff straightened up.

Mandy nudged him with her elbow, then tilted her chin at the empty living-room. Drag Strip looked at them, wondering what was going on now. At least the mention of his job seemed to have distracted them from their missing friend.

The door to the washracks opened and Dead End walked out, rubbing his wet hair with a towel. "Drag Strip, have you seen my red shirt? It was—"

He stopped in his tracks and stared at the two humans, who gaped back at him. Mandy's face went redder than the shirt. Dead End lowered the towel slowly over the lower half of his frame, like an apron.

Drag Strip decided against introducing the humans. "Your shirt?" He frowned and looked at a corner of the ceiling. "It must be in Mot—Tom's room."

"I was in my room last night."

"Well, you weren't the night before." Dead End's eyes narrowed, but Drag Strip ignored that and grinned. "Maybe he tore it off you."

"I think I'd remember that," Dead End said dryly. "Did you take it?"

"Of course not! You must've left it somewhere. Why don't you check under the bed?"

"Good idea," Dead End said, and turned on his heel, giving the humans a good view of his aft as he headed for the bedrooms. Drag Strip choked back laughter at the looks on their faces, though he lost all the amusement when he heard a sleepy voice.

"Whass goin' on?" Wildrider mumbled.

"Nothing," Dead End said. "Go back to sleep."

"Hey, stay out of my room!" Drag Strip bolted forward, making Jeff spring out of the way as he leaped over the back of the couch and ran for his room, but by then Dead End had already found the shirt. He looked it over carefully, and then sniffed it as well. _As if I smell bad_, Drag Strip thought indignantly.

"Don't take my clothes again," he said.

Drag Strip rolled his eyes. "Sure. Hey, Wildrider, since you're up, how about some breakfast?"

"Get dressed first. We have company." Dead End left and Drag Strip followed him, plotting how to get the shirt back. It was perfect for his matador routine, and one of the other dancers had promised to lend him a red cape to cover himself up much as Dead End had done with the towel. Only to greater success and with more applause, of course. Especially when he flung it aside at the end with a sinuous flick of his wrist.

Dead End went into his own room to dress and Drag Strip rejoined the humans, but as he opened his mouth to tell them to leave, Mandy cleared her throat. "Sid…" She bit her lip, rubbing a fold of her sleeve between her finger and thumb. "What made you decide to become a stripper? Were you not able to find any other kind of work?"

_How did she know that?_ Caught off-guard, Drag Strip hesitated, unsure whether to reply.

"I'll take that as a yes," Jeff said. "Sid, whoever you work for… have they tried to entice you into prostitution?"

"Entice me into _what?_"

"If they haven't, they probably will soon. It's just a matter of time." Mandy looked sadder than when she had been talking about her dead friend. "I've seen it happen to so many people. That, and worse. At first it seems like a good way to make money, but in the end it costs you your health, your self-respect and your soul."

"What are you talking about?" Drag Strip felt more confused than ever. "How could I lose all that?"

"Through drug and alcohol abuse, for a start," Jeff put in. "That's rife in strip clubs. And many of the people who go to those places are sexual predators."

Drag Strip laughed. "And you think they're going to attack me?" He would have liked to see that; it had been a while since he had been involved in a really good fight. Tussles with Wildrider didn't count.

"The way they treat you on a daily basis will be enough in the end," Mandy said quietly.

"What's _that_ supposed to mean? The people there like me, okay? They cheer for me and give me money – which is more than the two of you have done so far."

"We're here to give you hope," Mandy said. "And truth. The people who come to see you strip don't see you as a person, like we do. To them you're just a – a thing, a piece of meat. They give you money to debase yourself to satisfy their lust. They cheer because you fulfill a low, degenerate need in them, not because they like or respect you."

Jeff nodded. "Maybe you felt you had no choice but to do this kind of work. But you do. You always have a choice to keep your sense of self-worth and dignity."

Drag Strip didn't know what to say. It was true he hadn't had any other choice but to work at the club because no other place would hire him, but that didn't mean he had no self-worth and dignity. Did it?

"I'm so sorry you felt reduced to doing this – this degrading thing," Mandy said, "but there's a way out, truly there is. You can get help—"

"What's going on?" Dead End said from behind them.

The humans spun around, both looking relieved when they realized this time Dead End was fully dressed. But Drag Strip couldn't even feel amused by that.

"We were explaining the Good News to your friend," Jeff answered.

Drag Strip found his voice. "You call that good news? Slag, thanks for not telling me the bad news, then!"

Dead End's brows drew together. "Good news?" He glanced at the thick book still tucked under Jeff's arm. "Oh, you mean the bible."

Mandy beamed. "You've read it?"

"Yes, they had a copy in the motel room where we stayed. Very amusing. I especially liked the chapter about Job."

The smile froze. "Excuse me?"

"The part where the messenger tells him his son's house has collapsed in the middle of a party, killing everyone inside?" Dead End leaned one hip against the back of the sofa and began to button his shirt cuffs, his face set in its usual indifferent expression. "I laughed and laughed."

The humans exchanged looks. "I, uh, don't think you quite grasped the true meaning of the Word," Jeff began. "The Good Book is meant to give mankind – "

"A means to escape their entirely well-justified fear of death, yes I know." Dead End smoothed his hair. "It provides a baseless assurance that there's something to anticipate beyond the nasty, brutish and above all short existence that you call "life.". Still, I did find some passages in it that seemed relevant to my own experience. For instance, we used to have a Honda.'"

Mandy blinked. "I don't understand."

"There's a verse which says, 'and they were all in one accord.'"

For a moment there was complete silence and then Wildrider strolled out of the bedroom. "Oh, humans!" he said happily. "I mean… people. New people. Friends! D'you wanna stay for breakfast?"

"No, no, no thanks," Jeff said, sidling around the couch. Mandy had already grabbed her purse and seemed ready to leave as well. "But it was really nice meeting you all. Uh, here's a pamphlet you can read. Have a good day!" The door slammed behind them.

Dead End glanced at the piece of paper and tore it neatly – first into halves, then into quarters. "Well, that was a useless expenditure of time," he said, dropping the pieces in the trash receptacle as he left for work.

The smell of burning bacon drifted from the kitchen but Drag Strip didn't feel hungry. He sat on the couch and put the little brushes back into his makeup kit, fitting each one into its place. Was that what people really thought of him? They either saw him as a "piece of meat" or pitied him for degrading himself?

He had been looking forward to getting dressed up that night, to dancing, entertaining the audience and collecting his usual reward at the end. He knew he still would. But for the first time, it would feel like an empty performance.

He closed the makeup kit quietly, and the mirror on the inside of its lid went down so he could no longer see his face.


	19. Hitting a Speed Bump

_Authors'__ notes : Thanks to everyone for the reviews - those made our day! It's great to know that so many people are enjoying the story. :)  
_

_Chapter summary :__ Things start to heat up, and Dead End loses his cool…along with a few other things._

_- anon_decepticon and QoS/mdperera_

_-Thanks to kookaburra1701 for her support and input!_

* * *

**Chapter 19 : Hitting a Speed Bump**

The door to the apartment building struck the wall with a bang as Dead End shot through it, taking all four front steps in a single leap. The bus stop was only two blocks away, but he knew if he missed it he'd have to wait for the next one, delaying his arrival at work by over fifteen minutes.

Even so, he forced himself to adopt a slightly more dignified pace as he mounted the sidewalk, resisting the urge to break into a run. Their recent visitors might still be in the vicinity, and he didn't want to give them the satisfaction of knowing they'd made him late.

He scowled at the thought of them as he set out in a brisk, ground-eating stride, sidestepping to avoid an elderly female human wheeling a metal cart filled with groceries. Perhaps it was just a lingering trace of Decepticon territoriality surfacing, but Dead End hadn't liked having strangers in their apartment.

_Drag Strip should never have let them in._ Motormaster certainly wouldn't have, but he'd gone out early that morning to buy food and ammunition for the shotgun. Wildrider had been asleep, and Breakdown had been too unnerved by the humans' presence to leave their bedroom.

Under normal circumstances, Dead End would have been content to simply ignore them; he'd been far more concerned with getting himself ready to report to work on time. But then he'd seen the look on Drag Strip's face.

He didn't know what the humans had said to him, but he knew Drag Strip well enough to know it had cut to the chrome. Poking holes in Drag Strip's ego had always been something of a sport for Dead End, but he wasn't about to stand by and allow a couple of humans to do the same.

To his relief, he arrived at the bus stop just as it pulled up, and was able to board without further difficulty. That was fortunate; he didn't want to risk getting fired after less than two weeks of gainful employment. They may have succeeded in acquiring a computer, but that hadn't ended their monetary woes.

If anything, they'd gotten _worse_.

Motormaster continued to insist that they'd never have to repay the human loan shark, but Dead End didn't share his optimism. They'd missed the due date of their first interest payment two days ago, and that very same night the phone began to ring.

The first time, Motormaster answered it. He'd listened for a moment in grim silence, then hung up without a word. It rang again almost immediately, but Motormaster didn't pick up a second time, and forbade any of them from doing the same. It continued to ring for over an hour, until Motormaster finally unplugged it and ordered them all into recharge.

Dead End had obeyed along with the others, but he knew it wouldn't end there. Sooner or later the human Motormaster was ignoring would come looking for his money, and Motormaster's proposed solution – to kill the human with the gun he'd acquired – only promised more trouble. If robbing humans was bad, _murdering_ them was worse, and not just because of the mess it would make in their apartment.

The bus jerked to a halt with a hiss of pneumatic brakes, jolting him from his reverie. Shaking his head, Dead End rose and disembarked, setting his doubts aside. _It was Motormaster's idea to borrow that money, _he thought grimly_. Let him worry about how we're going to repay it._

* * *

"In the end, everything dies," he said. "Insects, people, planets. Even the stars will burn out eventually. In all the universe, only death remains constant and unchanging. Nothing escapes its grasp."

"That's actually sort of comforting," Trevor said. "At least something's permanent."

"Indeed," he replied. It was late afternoon, and only a handful of customers remained in the shop, lingering over their espressos and lattes. Dead End had just finished clearing his last table when Trevor came in for his usual cup of coffee and asked if he had time to talk. After an inquiring glance at Paula – who'd smiled and nodded indulgently – Dead End had joined the human at his table.

"You're really smart," Trevor was saying. "Where did you go to school?"

Dead End hesitated, wondering how much of the truth was safe to reveal. "I didn't."

"Oh," Trevor said, looking nonplussed. "So where are you from?"

"Where are any of us from?" he replied evasively, picking up the remains of the sugar packets Trevor had emptied into his coffee and rolling them into a ball between his fingers. "That's the real question."

"Yeah, but –"

"Sorry to interrupt you two," Paula said, "but it's almost closing time."

Dead End looked up, and realized all of the other customers had gone. He hadn't even noticed them leaving. He got up quickly and began wiping down the nearest table, making a belated attempt to look busy.

Trevor flushed. "Guess I've worn out my welcome," he said with a sheepish glance at Dead End. He rose and picked up his bag, slinging it over his shoulder. "Will you be working tomorrow?"

Dead End looked at Paula. She nodded. "I'll be here," he said.

"Cool," Trevor said. "Then I, uh – I guess I'll see you then."

Paula grinned, glancing at Dead End. "If you'd like to stick around a little longer, it's all right by me," she told Trevor. "As much as you've been hanging around here lately, I'd consider you a regular."

Trevor's flush deepened. "Well, if you really don't mind…" he muttered, fumbling with his bag.

"Not at all," Paula said, her eyes twinkling mischievously. "I already flipped the sign." She looked at Dead End. "I'm gonna go close out the register. Would you mind taking out the trash?"

"If I must," he replied. He'd made the mistake of expressing distaste for that particular task on his first day, and Paula had teased him about it ever since.

"What a trooper," she said with a grin. "Don't get your hands too dirty."

Dead End made a show of rolling his optics as he headed back behind the counter to where the trash was kept. "If I come down with some terminal disease, I'm holding you personally responsible," he called back over his shoulder.

"We all gotta go sometime," she replied cheerfully.

It wasn't that bad, to be honest. Most of the trash that accumulated over the course of a day consisted of crumpled napkins, paper cups, and plastic eating utensils – nothing he couldn't handle. Given the choice between taking a couple bags of trash out to a dumpster once in a while and having to look for another job, Dead End preferred the former.

_I've had worse duties_, he thought as he wrestled the bulky bags out the side door and lugged them over to the dumpster in the alley that ran alongside the building. He didn't really mind Paula's teasing either, although he'd been puzzled when she'd said that taking out the trash was "man's work." The bags weren't that heavy.

_I wonder who did it before she hired me?_ he thought as he lowered the dumpster's lid with a clang and turned to head back down the alley.

He never saw it coming.

The first blow took him in the stomach, doubling him over and forcing the air from his lungs. The second came when he tried to straighten, slamming into the side of his face with enough strength behind it to knock him off his feet.

He hit the ground hard, his vision flickering in and out, threatening to give way to darkness. Dazed and half-blinded by pain, for a moment all he could do was lie there gasping for air, his processor reeling.

A pair of hands grabbed him by the lapels of his jacket as he struggled to breathe, hauling him up and shoving him against the alley wall. A second set of hands began rifling through his pockets.

_Two_. There were two of them, and they were human. Dead End squinted, trying to identify who they were, but his left optic didn't seem to be functioning, and the other refused to focus. The entire left side of his face felt like it was on fire.

"Nothing," a male voice said, thick with disgust. "Six bucks and a pair of sunglasses."

The hands holding him up jerked him away from the wall, and once more he was thrown to the ground. He landed facedown in the trash-strewn alleyway, a booted foot impacting against his side when he attempted to rise. He opted not to try again.

Something clicked to the ground a few inches from his face. His human visor. A handful of bills fluttered down beside it.

"Listen up, fag," the voice said. "Tell your boyfriend Mr. Ominsky wants his money."

_Ah_, he thought. _I should have known_.

With that, the two humans turned and left, one pausing to deliver a final parting kick before stepping over him. Humiliation burned through his circuits. They hadn't even bothered to rob him.

He thought about shutting down, of retreating into that dark, apathetic space where nothing mattered and conscious thought didn't exist. But he didn't want to be found like this, lying facedown in an alley next to a dumpster like a piece of human refuse. Bracing his hands under him, he attempted to push himself upright.

The alley dipped and swayed drunkenly, and he slumped back to the ground, feeling something give way beneath him with a soft _crunch_. For a moment he wondered if he'd broken something vital, but then realized he'd fallen on his discarded visor.

_Get up_, he thought. _You don't want them to find you like this_.

He took a moment to gather his strength, and tried again. This time he was successful, and managed to sit up. After glancing around to confirm the two humans were gone, he began taking stock of his injuries. The left side of his face felt hot and swollen, and his ribs ached where his attackers had kicked him.

_Mr. Ominsky wants his money_, they'd said. It was Motormaster who'd borrowed it, Motormaster who'd angered the human by refusing to pay. But it wasn't Motormaster kneeling here amid the garbage wondering how badly damaged he was. It was _him_.

It was _always_ him.

After a moment's deliberation, he retrieved the money his assailants had rejected. It may have been beneath their notice, but he was in no shape to return to the apartment on foot. That accomplished, he carefully pulled himself to his feet, using the alley wall for support.

The door to the coffeehouse was only a few yards away. It might as well have been miles. Slowly he inched his way towards it, clutching his injured ribs. After what seemed like an eternity, his fingers closed over the handle.

"See, you survived – oh my God," Paula said as he staggered through the door. Trevor looked up as well, his eyes widening as he caught sight of Dead End.

They were at his side almost instantly, Trevor taking most of his weight as they helped him to a couch. Dead End sank down onto it gratefully, relieved to be off his feet.

Both humans spoke at once.

"What happened?" Paula asked.

"Did you get mugged?" Trevor said.

Dead End shook his head. Talking seemed like too much effort.

Trevor ran over to the door, hauling it open and peering out into the alley. "I don't see anyone," he said after a moment, allowing the door to swing shut again. "I guess he got away."

"I'm calling the police," Paula said, turning back towards the counter.

Dead End's head jerked up. "No," he said, wincing at the sudden movement. "No police."

She halted in mid-stride. "Oh. Right, bad idea." She glanced at Trevor, then back to him. "Is, um…is there someone else I can call? To help you get back home?"

"I'll do it," Trevor said. "I'll take him. I've got enough money for a cab."

Paula looked at Dead End, her expression uncertain. "That okay with you?"

Dead End hesitated, not sure how to respond. The offer of a cab ride home was more appealing than the bus, but he didn't think it would be wise to reveal where they lived. Trevor already knew his real name, and seeing the other Stunticons might offer the human too many clues about who they really were. But calling one of the others here would have the same effect.

_Maybe just as far as the building,_ he reasoned. _He won't know which apartment is ours._

"All right," he said.

* * *

He held off on divulging their address until after Trevor had hailed a cab, hoping that would give the human less time to commit it to memory. Over the past two weeks, Trevor had displayed a marked interest in Dead End's personal details, from his favorite foods to his preferred type of music. His curiosity was a little unnerving.

"Did you get a good look at the guy who attacked you?" Trevor asked as the cab pulled away from the curb. "How much money did he get?"

"None," he said. "And there were two of them."

"They didn't take your wallet?"

_I don't have a wallet_, he thought wryly. Aloud he said, "No."

Trevor gave him a puzzled look. "So…what did they want?"

Dead End shifted uneasily, glancing at the cab driver. "I don't know."

Trevor frowned, but didn't say anything more for the rest of the trip. When the cab stopped outside their apartment building, Dead End got out. To his dismay, so did Trevor.

"So this is where you live?" Trevor asked as the cab drove off.

"Yes," he said, uncertain how to proceed. If he went inside, would Trevor try to follow? "Thank you for the ride," he added, hoping the human would take the hint and leave.

"No problem," Trevor replied with a shrug. "You sure you don't want to call the cops?"

"I'm sure," he said.

"Why do you think those guys jumped you?" Trevor persisted. "Did they say anything?"

During the course of their previous conversations, Trevor had demonstrated his intelligence more than once, but at the moment Dead End found himself wishing the human were a little less curious. "Nothing of import," he said. He frowned, recalling what his assailants had said to him. "What does 'fag' mean?"

Trevor gave him a startled look. "You mean you don't know?"

He shook his head. "No. Should I?"

Trevor shrugged, looking vaguely apologetic. "It's, uh, sort of an insult," he said. "It means you like to sleep with other guys."

Dead End blinked. "How would they know that?"

Trevor grinned. "Well in your case, it's kind of obvious. I knew it from the moment I saw you."

Dead End stared at him, feeling more than a little disturbed. How could the humans who had assaulted him known about their sleeping arrangements? For that matter, how could Trevor? The only humans they'd permitted inside their base were Doug, the landlord, and the couple Drag Strip had let in that morning. "How?" he asked.

"Gaydar, man," Trevor said. "You can just tell."

"Ah," Dead End replied, struggling not to sound as bewildered as he felt. Did humans have some form of radar, like the one he'd used to have?

"Don't worry, I'm not gonna beat you up for it," Trevor said, edging closer to him. His voice dropped to a whisper. "Might like to do a couple other things, though."

"Like what?" he asked, eyeing him warily. Why was Trevor standing so close?

"Like this," Trevor said, putting his mouth on his.

Dead End froze, too startled to react. He'd seen enough human movies to understand what Trevor was doing; what he didn't understand was why Trevor was doing it to _him. _He tried to pull away, but Trevor reached up to cup his uninjured cheek, preventing his retreat.

He opened his mouth to protest, and Trevor's tongue slid past his lips. His breath caught in his throat, his fuel pump giving an odd lurch as Trevor deepened the kiss, his tongue dipping in and withdrawing.

It was a curious sensation, liquid and melting, like drinking warm energon. Swallowing nervously, Dead End offlined his optics and attempted to respond in kind.

Seemingly encouraged, Trevor pressed in closer, his lips hot and demanding. His other hand came to rest on Dead End's waist. Dead End yielded to him, his fuel pump pounding in his chest, offering no resistance until Trevor's fingers trailed over his injured side, making him flinch and recoil, severing the kiss.

"Sorry!" Trevor said, drawing back hastily. "I forgot you were –"

Dead End blinked at him in confusion. "Why did you do that?"

"I didn't mean to," Trevor said abashedly. "I guess I just got a little carried away."

"Not that," he said.

"Oh." Color crept into Trevor's pale cheeks. "Because I like you."

Dead End stared at him. "Ah." No one had ever actually said that to him before. Not even Breakdown. "All right."

Trevor grinned broadly at that, leaning in close again.

This time, Dead End didn't try to pull away.

* * *

After saying goodnight to Trevor, Dead End returned to their apartment. He had a bad moment when he paused to retrieve his key, worried that his attackers might have taken it, but it was right in his pocket where he'd left it. He was about to fit it into the lock when the door flew open, revealing an incensed-looking Breakdown.

For a moment they stared at each other in mutual surprise, Breakdown's angry expression morphing into one of shock at the sight of his injuries. "What the frag happened?" he asked.

Dead End sighed. Suddenly he didn't want to deal with any of it. "May I come in?"

"Oh, sorry," Breakdown said, reminding him inexplicably of Trevor. He stepped aside, allowing Dead End to enter, shutting the door behind him.

By now the other Stunticons had realized something was amiss, but Dead End kept his optics on the floor as he moved silently to the center of the room and waited.

He heard the slow scrape of a chair sliding back, followed by heavy footsteps. A large hand seized hold of his chin, forcing his head up and to the side. He submitted to the unwanted inspection, his optics narrowing as Motormaster assessed his injuries.

"Who did this?" Motormaster asked, his voice deceptively soft.

Dead End yanked his chin free of Motormaster's grip. "You did."

Motormaster blinked. "What?"

"This is your doing," he said. "That human you made an agreement with wants his money - the money _you_ said we'd never have to pay. This is the price for ignoring him. But you're not the one who's paying it."

Motormaster's expression darkened, his face flushing with rage. "I'll tear that fragger apart," he said quietly.

"Or you could just keep on ignoring him," Dead End replied, gazing up at the ceiling. "I doubt you'll ever have to face the consequences – not while _we're_ around to do it for you." He looked back at Motormaster, pinning him with a cold accusing glare. "I wonder who will be next? Breakdown? Drag Strip?"

Motormaster's arm swung up, his hand balling into a fist. Someone in the room gasped, but Dead End felt only icy indifference. "Or me again?"

Motormaster's fist halted abruptly, hanging frozen in midair.

"Go ahead." Dead End lifted his chin slightly. "Hit me. You can both take turns."

Motormaster's fist trembled, the muscles in his arm coiled like a spring –but then it dropped limply to his side.

Dead End arched a brow. "No? Then we're done here."

With that, he turned and walked out, returning to his room.

* * *

Breakdown came in a few minutes later and sat down on the bed beside him. "I brought some ice for your face."

Dead End held out a hand, not bothering to open his eyes. A cold, lumpy wad of paper towels was placed in it. He lifted it to his face, resting it against his swollen optic. "Thank you."

"Motormaster went out somewhere," Breakdown said. "He looked really mad."

"What a shame," he replied. "I do hope nothing _unfortunate_ happens to him."

Breakdown didn't respond, but Dead End could hear him fidgeting. Several minutes ticked by in uneasy silence. Gradually the ice against his cheek became too cold to bear, so he transferred the bundle to his side.

"Who was that human?" Breakdown asked.

"What human?" he replied.

"The one I saw you with outside," Breakdown said.

"Oh." He'd forgotten about Trevor. "Someone from work. He wanted to make sure I made it home intact."

"Is that why you were kissing him?" Breakdown asked.

_That_ made him open his eyes. Breakdown's tone had sounded almost…accusatory. Dead End shifted on the mattress, trying to find a position that didn't _hurt_. "No."

"Then why were you?"

He shrugged, wincing as the movement sent a flicker of pain down his side. "He seemed to want to."

Breakdown was silent for a moment, his posture stiff, his hands folded tightly in his lap. "Did you?"

He huffed irritably. "This is verging on an interrogation, Breakdown."

"And you're virgin on fragging around outside the team," Breakdown retorted, the anger lurking in his tone boiling to the surface. "What are you kissing some human for? He's not one of us."

"The word is 'verging,'" Dead End corrected him automatically. "And I'm not fragging anyone until my ribs heal."

Breakdown opened his mouth to reply, but then closed it, staring down at his hands.

A thin thread of guilt coiled up in his spark. Breakdown was upset because Trevor had kissed him. Trevor had wanted to kiss him, and Dead End had let him. He'd even kissed back. _Why did I do that? Breakdown is right. He's not one of us_.

_Because I like you_.

Dead End bit his lip, shoving the thought aside. "He's just a human," he said, not sure who he was trying to convince – Breakdown, or himself. "He's not important."

"It's my fault, isn't it?" Breakdown said. "I'm taking too long with the computer. You got slagged because of me."

Dead End sat up, wincing again at the pain in his ribs. "It's Motormaster's fault, and he knows it," he said. "That's why he isn't here." He reached up, smoothing the hair back from Breakdown's forehead. It still bore the scar where the knife had cut him.

Breakdown looked up at the touch, meeting his gaze with troubled optics.

At times like this, it almost hurt to look at him. He knew Breakdown relied on him more than the others. Unlike Wildrider or Drag Strip, Dead End indulged him more often than not. He wondered if Breakdown had ever pondered why.

"Everything's falling apart," Breakdown said. "Everyone's fighting with each other; you're off kissing some human –"

Dead End reached up to cup Breakdown's cheek in his hand. "We're still a team," he said. "And we always will be. Assuming we survive this, which seems unlikely."

"But what about –?"

Trevor was human. Dead End was not. He never would be, not really. And it wasn't Trevor he wanted. "He's just a human," he said again. _He's not you._ "He's not one of us."

And then he kissed him.

It was just a simple press of lip components, yet it felt like _more, _the sensation all out of proportion to the act. Breakdown tensed, his lips parting in confusion, and Dead End seized the opportunity just like Trevor had, plundering Breakdown's mouth with his glossa.

Breakdown shivered and melted into his arms, a soft sigh of satisfaction escaping him.

When they broke apart, Breakdown's eyelids fluttered for a moment before he reopened them. "Do you really think they'll come after the rest of us?"

"Probably," he said.

"I didn't think it would take this long," Breakdown said. "Writing a program is a lot harder as a human. I can't remember what I've done and what I haven't. I have to keep rechecking the code to make sure I didn't miss anything."

Dead End nodded. "Something Motormaster should have considered when he made that deal."

Breakdown frowned, his brow furrowing. "It's my fault," he said, his hands curling into fists. "I'm the one who broke the machine, I'm the one causing the belay –"

"Breakdown," he said, shifting his fingers from Breakdown's cheek to his lips. He was tired, and his ribs ached. "Enough. We all have our parts in this. If we fail, we fail as one."

Breakdown hesitated a moment, then nodded. Satisfied, Dead End eased back down onto the mattress and closed his eyes.

A minute later he opened them again, because Breakdown hadn't joined him. "Are you coming to bed?"

Breakdown shook his head. "Someone has to keep watch."

Dead End frowned at that, but he couldn't dispute Breakdown's logic. Motormaster was gone, he was injured, and their team was under imminent threat.

It took a long time to fall into recharge without him, all the same.


	20. Interlude I

_Chapter summary : Meanwhile, back on the ship..._

_-anon_decepticon and QoS/mdperera_

_Thanks also to Kookaburra1701 for input and support!

* * *

  
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**Interlude I**

Brawl shifted his weight from one foot to another, looking uncomfortable. Alone in the middle of Megatron's private audience chamber, surrounded by silence, he was out of his element. It showed in the minute whines of the servos in his hands, the whir of ventilation fans going just a little faster than they should have, the rigid tension in his spinal strut.

Unfortunately, like Swindle and Vortex before him, he wasn't breaking under that pressure to tell Megatron anything new. His story had been identical to theirs. They left their posts to confront the Autobots without either damaging the matter-energy convertor or drawing the Autobots' attention to it. After damaging one Autobot and forcing the others into retreat, they returned to find the matter-energy convertor badly damaged and no evidence of the Stunticons' presence other than tire tracks. Brawl expressed himself with less finesse and volubility than Swindle used, but the gist of it was the same.

Megatron supposed the three of them could have rehearsed the story before returning to the Decepticon base. So he he had ordered them isolated and then questioned them individually – which hadn't pleased Onslaught at all. But neither of the previous sessions had yielded anything useful. Vortex was too experienced an interrogator himself to crack under anything short of torture, and Swindle talked in circles, responding to his questions with a torrent of blatant lies and endless digressions, none of which were relevant to the subject at hand. Brawl should have been easy in comparison – but he wasn't.

Megatron got up from his chair and walked a slow, close circle around Brawl. "What kind of debris did you find near the machine?"

"Debris?" Brawl said, as if he wasn't certain what the word meant. Which was entirely possible.

Megatron held on to the last of his patience. "Yes. Broken components or spare parts, for instance. I recall that when Swindle sold you for scrap, we were able to locate a trail of junk he left behind."

Brawl bristled at the reminder, but then twitched a shoulder in a shrug. "Didn't see anything."

Megatron stopped, staring into the Combaticon's masked face. "Do you seriously expect me to believe that the Stunticons simply _disappeared_?"

Brawl looked down. "Didn't see 'em." After a long moment of silence he glanced up at Megatron. "Didn't _see_ 'em."

"You ambushed and deactivated them." There was a whine as Megatron's fusion cannon began to charge up.

Brawl's gaze darted to the weapon, but he only shook his head in a series of rapid jerks.

"You challenged them openly, then."

"No." The word was almost a snarl, and Brawl's optics glowed with a furnace heat. "I didn't lay a fragging hand on them!"

"But your comrades did." Megatron stayed calm, knowing that would provoke the Combaticon even further.

"_No!_ We didn't see 'em!" Brawl's fists clenched. "We went to fight the 'bots and we came back and they weren't there!"

Megatron stepped back, optic ridges drawing together as he considered what to do next. The Combaticons' stories, unlikely though they were, seemed as unlikely to change no matter what questions he asked. Resorting to more…rigorous … interrogation was an option, but then he would have to deal with Onslaught's objections.

"Can I go now?" Brawl said, sounding a little more subdued.

Megatron nodded curtly. He could order Soundwave to read Brawl's mind, which would probably take all of an astrosecond. But he was growing less convinced of the Combaticons' guilt.

When he was alone in the chamber again, he drew half a cube and sipped it thoughtfully. According to Soundwave, Onslaught hadn't left the _Nemesis_ for nearly the past orn, which meant he could not have participated in an attack on the Stunticons. Megatron would not have put it past Onslaught to devise some elaborate plan to eliminate a rival gestalt, but Onslaught would never allow his subordinates to carry out said plan alone while he remained in his quarters.

And Megatron highly doubted that Swindle, Vortex and Brawl could have even damaged Motormaster, let alone all five Stunticons. Blast-Off, a lethal orbital sniper, could have tipped the odds in their favor, but Soundwave reported that Blast-Off had been – and still was – on the other side of the planet, as evidenced by the long-range scans he continued to send in.

The second possibility was that the Autobots were responsible. But Megatron found that equally implausible. The Autobots had only been able to capture the Stunticons once before, when they had been separated, and even then it had taken Optimus Prime himself to bring Motormaster down. He doubted that could have been repeated with no evidence of an attack and no comms or distress signals to the base.

_And if those fools do have my Stunticons,_ he thought, _Prime should be begging me to take them back any joor now._

The final prospect was the one he liked the least, the one Starscream was sure to suggest the moment Megatron emerged from his quarters, the one for which there was the most evidence. That was the possibility that the Stunticons had simply… left.

Megatron's fingers tightened around the empty cube until it cracked. Compared to the other Decepticons, the Stunticons were far more capable of living off the land and blending in with Earth vehicles, and they had certainly preferred doing that to following orders in the past. But he had never known them to ignore a direct comm from him, nor were they likely to simply abandon a mission. The Stunticons typically went AWOL when they were bored, rather than when they were given an assignment.

He opened a comm to Soundwave. "Transmit the coordinates of the matter-energy converter's last location to Thrust. He is to do a surveillance sweep of the area and report anything of significance." He paused; if an ambush had overwhelmed the Stunticons, the same could happen to Thrust. "And tell Skywarp to accompany him." Skywarp at least could escape quickly and bring news back to the base.

But the two Seekers returned with no evidence at all, and by then Megatron had received Scrapper's preliminary report on the damage assessment of the matter-energy convertor. According to the Constructicons, the damage to the machine appeared to have been caused by Breakdown's sabotaging engine vibrations.

Megatron read the report with no change in expression, but he wanted to smash something – anything – into its component atoms. Even though Scrapper's report mentioned that the matter-energy convertor might be repairable, it also stressed that they didn't know the extent of the damage as yet and would have to carry out a number of field tests to fully catalogue it. And there were no signs of the Stunticons at all. He had lost both a gestalt and a useful device, and it looked as though the one had been responsible for the other – which was, he supposed grimly, reason enough for the Stunticons' sudden disappearance.

Whether they needed to be rescued or executed, though, he would find them. They belonged to him in a way no other Decepticons did, and Megatron didn't relinquish anything that was his.


	21. Pit Stop

_Chapter summary : Drag Strip does some soul-searching, and finds out he's just as amazing as he always suspected._

_Authors' note : This takes place just after Chapter 18, while Dead End is at work._

_-anon_decepticon and QoS/mdperera_

_

* * *

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**Chapter 21 : Pit Stop**

After the humans left, Drag Strip was at a loss. Breakdown came back out, looked around and sat down before the computer again, while Wildrider continued to incinerate something in the kitchen. Drag Strip felt as though he was the only one without something to do.

He didn't feel up to tackling Wildrider's idea of cooking, so he left the apartment just before lunch. He had tried practising a new routine, but everything from the warm-up to the dance moves themselves felt as though he was going through the motions. The imaginary audience he'd always seen before him, the cheering crowd of thousands who filled the dingy living-room and transformed it into a magnificent stadium, was gone. He was no longer sure what lay behind human faces and human smiles, whether they were looking at him with genuine appreciation and desire, or whether it was all just a mask.

He told himself that it didn't make any difference. Breakdown would contact the base soon and then the Constructicons would fix them somehow. It wasn't as if he would be human much longer, let alone continue to work at the strip club. Even if no one had disillusioned him, it would all have ended before long.

Somehow that didn't make him feel any better.

He started to walk around the block. That was normally a pleasant experience; people often stared at him in his yellow blazer, tight trousers and high-heeled boots. He always pretended not to notice – after all, it wasn't as though passers-by were customers – but he secretly reveled in the attention, relishing it like a gulp of high-grade. Now, though, he wondered if what he'd taken for admiration was nothing more than pity.

He gave up on the walk and was about to return home when a movement from across the street caught his eye. A woman stepped out of the little deli on the corner, waved to someone inside and let the door swing shut behind her as she turned to leave.

Drag Strip stopped, frowning. He'd seen that woman before, sitting across a table from Motormaster_,_ of all mechs. Somehow she'd survived the experience, though perhaps Motormaster had his reasons for that_?_ Drag Strip had seen many women's faces light up with fascination during his brief stint as a human, but that was the first time he'd seen that kind of interest directed at Motormaster instead of himself.

It was partly that and partly his own reluctance to return to the apartment that set him into motion, crossing the road before he could think twice. The woman had already started off by then, though he noticed the deli was still open. _Slipping off in the middle of the day?_ he thought as he began to follow her. _For a tryst with Motormaster? _

He wasn't sure what he would do if that were the case – other than observe the proceedings, try not to purge his fuel tanks and take the news back to Wildrider to snicker over later – but trailing her was enough of a distraction to take his mind off what had happened that morning. And although the streets were busy, the woman was tall enough to stand out from the crowd.

He kept to a safe distance twenty feet behind her, not wanting to be discovered. Once, she paused to look in a shop window and Drag Strip had to halt as well, ducking back around the corner of a building and peeking out again cautiously. But soon she started walking again, and after a few minutes she reached another building, pushed open the lobby door and went in.

Drag Strip hesitated for only a moment before he hurried after her. The more he knew about Motormaster's potential weaknesses, the better – and fragging a human without even being _paid_ for it was about as strutless as a Decepticon could get. Through the dusty glass of the lobby door he saw the woman's large form vanish around a corner, probably headed for the elevators.

Drag Strip opened the door just enough to slip inside, the _ding_ of an elevator ahead covering up any sounds he might have made. He padded quietly up the short hall and turned the corner.

Movement flashed, coming straight at him. He jerked back reflexively, so fast that he lost his footing. Before he could recover, he was falling – and that was the only thing that saved him from the white cloud of spray that filled the air where his face had been only a second before. Even at that distance, the caustic vapor seared his throat and stung his eyes.

He hit the ground painfully and scrabbled backward, trying to blink his vision clear. In the next moment he realized that the woman had been hiding just around the corner, and now had a small aerosol can pointed at him. Drag Strip's fuel went cold. He knew only too well what that did to human systems. What if it stained his blazer?

He flung a hand up to protect his face, hoping it would be taken for a gesture of surrender, and glanced around desperately for a weapon. There was nothing close by except for a large potted plant, so he continued to push himself backward. Once he was out of range he would bolt to his feet and run. Perhaps return with a weapon, if he could find one outside.

"Wait a second!" the woman said. Drag Strip froze, looking up at her warily. She towered over him at that angle, and her brows were drawn together so sharply they almost met.

"You're one of Tom's roommates, aren't you?" she said.

_Oh slag._ Drag Strip hadn't thought his day could get any worse, but evidently he'd been wrong. She knew who he was, and now she was sure to report the incident to Motormaster.

His mind raced. Would throwing himself on her mercy distract her enough for him to get the drop on her somehow? Hopefully she wouldn't expect him to 'face her in exchange for her silence. Her hair was tied back from her undecorated face, and she was nowhere near as attractive as most of the women in the club; Drag Strip rated her a two on his one-to-ten scale. _But it's such a novelty for Motormaster to have someone _willing_ in his berth, he probably doesn't care _what _she looks like._

"Oh, come on, I've seen you before," the woman said. She seemed a little less angry, though the aerosol can was still pointed at him. "You might want to try wearing ordinary clothes next time you decide to follow someone. It was like being stalked by Big Bird."

"By whom?" Drag Strip dared to ask.

"Never mind. Did Tom put you up to this?"

"Of course not!" Drag Strip said indignantly. Just because he was forced to serve under Motormaster - one of the great injustices of the universe - didn't mean he was a drone.

The woman's eyes narrowed, and she didn't look as though she believed him. "Then why did you—" The elevator dinged again and she stepped to one side, lowering the can so it was hidden at her side. "Get up," she said quietly but urgently. "And try to look normal."

Drag Strip scrambled up as the elevator doors hissed open, brushing dust from his clothes. The elevator disgorged two more humans, but they didn't do more than glance at him, which was a relief. He'd been humiliated enough already.

"So why were you following me?" the woman said again.

Drag Strip took a cautious step closer, close enough that he could speak in a lowered voice while still remaining out of the aerosol can's range. "I… uh…" He could hardly say that he'd planned to watch whatever she was going to do with Motormaster, but what other reason could he give? "I was curious," he said, stalling for time while he tried to think of something.

She tilted her head to one side, still looking skeptical. "About what?"

_What would a human be likely to believe? _Drag Strip wondered. _Wait...she's human but she likes Motormaster, so will she think the same way other humans do about me stripping?_

"Do you find me attractive?" he said.

She blinked. "What?"

Drag Strip leaned a shoulder against the nearest wall to display his body from a more flattering angle.. "If I took all my clothes off, you'd like that, right?"

The woman's mouth dropped half-open, and she glanced around quickly. "You mean, right now?"

"Well… no," Drag Strip said, not without a little reluctance. If this unfortunate woman could show interest in Motormaster of all mechs, a little taste of the Yellowjacket's honey would probably send her out of her mind with ecstasy. "There's no music or spotlight here. But if we were at the club where I work, would you—"

"Wait a second," the woman said. "You're a stripper?"

Drag Strip rolled his eyes. "Obviously. Why else would I take off my clothes for you?"

The woman blinked, then shook her head a little. "I can see why you and Tom get along. You followed me home to ask me _that?_"

"Well, another hu—" Drag Strip caught himself just in time. "This other person told me that people look down on strippers, or feel sorry for them. And I…" He stopped, unwilling to admit how he had felt after that.

The woman studied him for a moment longer in silence. "Can I ask you something?" she said. "How long have you been doing that kind of work?"

"About three weeks." And it hadn't felt like work until that morning.

"I see. And did you like it before this person told you their opinion?"

Drag Strip smiled. "Yeah, it was fun. I got paid really well _and_ I was the first one to get a job! The waxing part sucked slag, but it was worth it."

The woman's mouth twitched at the corners. "Then that's what's important."

That didn't answer his question! "But _do_ people think that way about strippers?" Drag Strip said.

"Do I look like I pity you?" the woman said. "Even if I did, who cares? If your job makes you happy, that's what matters. You earned money and supported yourself, rather than taking a handout from the government. And if you got paid well, you must have been doing a good job, so you can be proud of that." She paused. "But the money wasn't enough for what you needed, was it?"

"No, the comp—" Drag Strip stopped. "How did you…" He caught himself again, torn between anger at the realization that he had given himself away and shock that this human knew so much about their situation.

_Motormaster's really been spilling it in the berth_, he thought grimly.

"Never mind," the woman said. "The point is, people will say what they like. But you don't have to listen. And about this pitying you for being a stripper…" She smiled suddenly. "Some people looked down on me when I was a waitress, and some people still don't think I amount to much because I run a deli in a rough neighborhood. But no one's going to make me less than proud of what I've accomplished with my life, and no one should make you feel that way, either."

Drag Strip didn't know quite what to say. It was the second time that day that a human had told him something he'd never heard before, but this time he didn't feel belittled or despised. Instead, it was like driving in the sun just long enough for his plating to absorb the rays, generating a steady warmth that matched the thrum of his engine as it reached its rhythm.

He didn't even need an audience when he felt like that.

The woman looked at her watch. "Damn, I'm going to be late." She slipped the aerosol can back into her shoulderbag.

Late? Well, that was something he could fix. "Do you have a car?"

"I have a pickup. Why?"

Drag Strip grinned, cocked one hip at a jaunty angle and held out a hand. "Give me the keys. I'll get you there ahead of time."

The woman looked at him with a mixture of wariness and disbelief. "Uh, thanks, but I'll pass. It was nice meeting you. Why don't you drop by the deli sometime? And bring your roommates along I'd like to meet them."

"Sure," Drag Strip said before it occurred to him to wonder just how much she knew about his roommates. She had already gotten into the elevator by then, and the doors were closing, so he only made a note of which floor it stopped on before he left. _Not stupid, for a human… too bad about the drab way she dresses._ No wonder no one except Motormaster would give her a second look. Maybe he _would_ drop by the deli – she could use some advice on how to emphasize her figure and decorate her face. With her hair down and her hemline up, she could go as high as a five on his scale.

And it was always nice to know he had something he could hold over Motormaster's head. Megatron would _not_ be pleased to hear that the leader of his elite gestalt had done it with a human, although Drag Strip wasn't sure if Megatron would approve of the finest member of said gestalt stripping for humans either. _Well, too bad if he doesn't. He should try being one sometime, see how _he_ manages._

He sauntered back to the apartment in a much better mood. Motormaster hadn't returned, Breakdown was still working on his program and Wildrider had gone out on some mysterious errand, but there was some lunch left over for him. Drag Strip finished it off and was just about to take his clothes down to the laundry room when the phone rang. He reached for it reflexively.

"Don't!" Breakdown said, looking up from his work. "Motormaster said no one should answer the phone, remember?"

Drag Strip's lip curled. Motormaster had told them that yesterday, after someone had called the apartment several times, but what was the point of having a phone if they couldn't even answer calls on it?

"Hey, Motormouse!" he said – albeit not too loudly – with his hand poised over the receiver. "If you don't want me to answer the phone, get your aft over here and stop me!"

Breakdown just looked at him in a way that said, _we both know you'd never say a word of that if he was actually in the apartment_, but Drag Strip just grinned as he picked up the receiver. "Yup?" he said.

"Hey, sunshine, come down to the lobby," Wildrider's voice said. "I got a surprise!"

Drag Strip hesitated – Wildrider's ideas of surprises were often erratic and sometimes dangerous – but before he could ask what was going on, there was a click as the phone was hung up at the other end. Shrugging, he strolled down to the lobby. His quick reflexes could probably get him out of the way of any explosions in time, and he had to admit he was curious. For all Wildrider's faults, life was never boring with him around.

Wildrider was waiting in the lobby, sitting on a large cardboard box, but he jumped up when he saw Drag Strip. "Help me get this upstairs before the boss sees it," he said.

"What is it?" Drag Strip said as he bent to help lift it.

"A TV!" Wildrider's eyes gleamed under the locks of dark hair that fell over his forehead.

"How could you afford one?" Drag Strip said, trying to jab the elevator button with his elbow.

"Bought it cheap from Marce. He said it fell off the back of a truck."

Drag Strip nearly let the thing fall again, and only refrained from doing so because the impact might have hurt his toes. "So it's damaged?" he said in disappointment as the elevator doors shut.

Wildrider shook his head. "Marce told me it's fine," he said, and it actually worked when they carried it into their room and plugged it in. Drag Strip turned it off as soon as they heard Motormaster come in, but as Wildrider gleefully reminded him, they could all cram into the room, make popcorn and watch _Knight Rider _at eight p.m. after Motormaster left for work. Wildrider could hardly wait for Dead End to get home and see it.

"Bet you he'll smi… he won't look so depressed," he said, making himself comfortable on the bed.

For once, Drag Strip didn't bet on the opposite. He only nodded and curled up beside Wildrider.


	22. Soft Shoulder

_Authors'__ notes : This chapter takes place following the events of chapter 19. Internet cookies to anyone who spots the pop-culture reference._

_- anon_decepticon and QoS/mdperera_

_-Thanks to kookaburra1701 for her support and input!_

* * *

**Chapter 22 : Soft Shoulder**

Motormaster was angry.

Actually, _angry_ didn't begin to cover it. He was enraged, incensed, bordering on homicidal. If Motormaster had his way, someone was going to die tonight.

He tore his optics from the hallway Dead End had just left, his gaze sweeping across the living room. The other Stunticons cowered, pressing back against the walls or taking cover behind the furniture. He heard his own fuel pounding in his ears, and felt his fingernails cut into his palms as his fists clenched.

But as tempting as it was to take that fury out on his subordinates, Motormaster held himself in check. They weren't the cause of his anger. The only one who arguably was had already left the room.

And it wasn't Dead End he was truly angry at. Not that Motormaster didn't fully intend to teach that pompous little fragger a harsh lesson for mouthing off at him like that in front of the others, but that offense was nothing compared to the fact that a mere _human_ had dared to lay a hand on one of his team.

_I'll crush him_. _I'll rip him to shreds and drive over him until there's nothing left_.

He turned on his heel and strode out of the apartment. Whether the human Ominsky knew it or not, he had just declared war.

_And he's going to lose,_ Motormaster thought as he boarded the bus that would take him to the Fog City Diner where he'd met the loan shark. Of course when he got there he'd have to contend with Ominsky's guard, but the prospect of that didn't faze him. Motormaster would have happily mowed down every human in the building to get to Ominsky if that was what it took.

Instinctively he willed his weapons from subspace, and was momentarily stunned when they didn't appear.

A wave of chagrin swept over him. In his haste to mete out retribution, he'd forgotten he could no longer summon his rifle or sword to his hand with little more than a thought. And he'd left his only _human_ weapon back at the apartment.

Motormaster briefly debated going back for it, but instantly dismissed the idea. The thought of slinking back to the base to retrieve it was too humiliating to contemplate. What would he even say to the others if he did that?

_Hi…I'm back. Forgot my gun._ He suppressed a shudder.

_Probably just as well,_ he reasoned. He doubted he'd have been allowed to board the bus with a shotgun in hand, and the diner was too far to walk carrying an unconcealed weapon without drawing the attention of human authority figures.

His spark sank as he realized his plan to storm the Fog City Diner was equally unworkable. If even one human there managed to call the police while Motormaster was busy dealing with the others, he might find himself in a human brig despite his best efforts to prevent it.

And then there would be no one left to protect his team.

His shoulders slumped, but Motormaster wasn't beaten as easily as that. A frontal assault may have been out of the question, but that didn't mean Ominsky would escape his wrath. As much as Motormaster would have liked to make the loan shark's death as slow and agonizing as possible, for the sake of his team he'd kill Ominsky quickly, before his guard or any of the other humans had a chance to react.

Justice would be served either way. Ominsky would pay the ultimate price for fragging with one of Motormaster's subordinates, and his death would serve as a reminder to the other humans.

No one messed with the Stunticons and lived.

* * *

The Fog City Diner was closed.

For a moment Motormaster could only stare in wordless frustration at the polished metal doors. The windows were dark, revealing nothing but his own reflection staring stupidly back at him, and as he watched, its lip components contorted into a scowl.

He felt like a fragging idiot. He'd simply assumed Ominsky would be here, just as he had been the last two times Motormaster visited. But that had been during the day. Bent on taking his revenge, the possibility that the diner might be closed early on that particular day hadn't even crossed his mind.

He couldn't believe he'd been so _stupid_. Ominsky had insisted that Motormaster give up _his_ name and address, but Motormaster had no idea where to find _him. _The Fog City Diner had been his only link to the loan shark.

Rage boiled up in his circuits. He wanted to break those blank black windows, to shatter the taunting image of his hated human form, but there were no weapons or even rocks handy. The sidewalks around him were barren, the parking spaces lining the street unoccupied.

With no other choices left, Motormaster turned and slowly headed back the way he'd come.

* * *

The bus deposited him on the curb and drove off, leaving Motormaster in a cloud of diesel exhaust. The familiar scent made his throat tighten until it was almost choking him.

He'd failed. He'd failed his team.

He didn't want to go back to the apartment, to have to face their accusing optics, but he had nowhere else to go. The streets were dark and nearly deserted, the handful of storefronts closed off behind heavy metal shutters.

He glanced up reflexively as he passed the deli on the corner, and was startled to discover it was still lit. Golden light poured from its windows, drawing Motormaster like a beacon. He brutally quashed the surge of relief that washed over him as he headed toward it, his pace quickening as he neared the entrance.

But when he reached for the handle, the door didn't budge. He yanked harder, rattling the door in its frame, but it refused to give way.

A confusing tangle of emotions welled up in his spark. Anger was foremost, hot and familiar, but underneath lay frustration and something uncomfortably close to despair.

He released his grip on the door and turned away, his hands once more clenching into fists.

"Tom?"

Motormaster tensed, startled, then turned around.

Val was standing there, holding the door open a scant few inches, her broad features set in a frown. Faint lines creased her forehead as she registered his expression.

"What happened?" she said.

Motormaster felt his jaw tighten. "Forget it." The only thing worse than confessing a failure – no matter how temporary – to his team was divulging the news to a human.

"Okay." The easy acquiescence surprised him too, and in the moment of silence Val pushed the door open a few inches wider. "But why don't you come in and sit down? I'll fix you something to drink."

Motormaster hesitated, wrestling with himself. He wanted to go in. He knew that was a weakness, something to be stomped into submission, but he also knew he didn't want to go back to the apartment just yet.

Almost involuntarily, he nodded. Val pushed the door open all the way, and Motormaster stepped inside.

* * *

Relocking the door behind him, Val gestured toward the nearest table. "Have a seat." Once Motormaster had done that, she headed back behind the counter, and returned with a paper cup in hand, setting it down in front of him in a businesslike fashion.

Motormaster stared at it. He'd been expecting coffee, but instead the cup was filled with an opaque white liquid. It looked like the stuff Breakdown liked to put in his coffee – _what's that called? Milt?_ – but in a larger quantity. He glanced over at Val, wondering if she was planning to bring him an entire pot of coffee, but she'd already sat down opposite him, as if her task was complete.

Val caught his look. "How are things going with you?" she said.

Motormaster ground his denta, reluctant to speak. Somehow it seemed worse to admit his failure out loud. Stalling for time, he reached for the cup.

It felt warm against his fingers, but unlike coffee, this drink had no scent at all. Motormaster briefly wondered if Val might be trying to poison him, but quickly dismissed the notion as ridiculous. If that had been her intention, she'd had numerous opportunities before now.

_Slag it_, he thought, raising the glass to his lips and downing it in one long gulp. It didn't taste anything like coffee – it didn't really taste much like anything – but he didn't care. He set the cup back down, and gave Val a hard look; just because she gave him a drink didn't mean he was going to tell her anything.

She was still looking at him, clearly awaiting his response. But as their eyes met, her lips twitched as though she was fighting a smile.

"What?" he asked.

"Milk moustache." She gestured at her mouth.

"Huh?"

"Here." Pulling a paper napkin from the holder, she leaned forward and dabbed at his upper lip.

It didn't even occur to Motormaster to pull away. He couldn't remember the last time anyone had touched him voluntarily outside of battle or repairs. No one ever touched him unless they absolutely had to.

_All except that one time_, he recalled. Dead End had touched him like that, although Motormaster wasn't sure why. He'd been just as startled then as he was now.

_You did this._ Dead End had sounded angrier tonight than Motormaster had ever seen him. And that didn't make sense either. Dead End took his rare beatings in sullen silence, without a word of complaint or outward emotion. Motormaster felt his hate and resentment through the gestalt bond clearly enough when they merged, but Dead End had never openly confronted him. _Until tonight, even though I didn't lay a slagging hand on him this time. _He didn't understand it, and suddenly the silence outside was as unbearable as the confusion within.

"I borrowed the money," he admitted.

"You found a loan shark." It wasn't a question, and Val shook her head, giving him a disappointed look. "I really thought you had more sense than that, Tom."

For a moment Motormaster was so stunned he could hardly speak – how dared this human speak with such disrespect to a Decepticon? A spurt of fury seemed to ignite all his fuel, making a low thrumming in his ears as the muscles in his arms stiffened.

Then it died down again, crushed under a weight of frustration and uncertainty and weariness. He drew in a long breath and told himself that while it would be satisfying to teach Val some of the deference she evidently lacked, he could always do so later.

"Didn't have a choice," he replied as best he could with his jaws clamped nearly closed.

"And I'm guessing now he wants his money back, plus interest, and you don't have it?"

"Yeah."

Val folded her arms. "Didn't it occur to you that if you were having a hard time getting five thousand dollars to begin with, you'd have an even harder time getting that plus interest?"

Motormaster glared at her. "I wasn't going to pay him at all."

She blinked at that. "So…what, you were just going to skip town?"

Motormaster scowled at the suggestion. He'd never run from a fight, not as long as there was even a slim chance of winning. "I had a plan," he said. "I still do, and it'll work. It's just…taking longer than I expected."

"Uh-huh," Val said. "And now the loan shark is leaning on you?"

He scoffed. "That I could handle. I'd break him in half."

"So what _did_ he do, then?"

That was a harder question. "He sent someone to attack one of my… roommates."

A look of concern flashed across Val's face. "Was it the guy in the yellow coat?"

Motormaster wondered how she knew about Drag Strip – but then he recalled the day Drag Strip and Wildrider had appeared outside the diner's window. "No," he said. _Not unless they wanted to scrape a lot of face-paint off their knuckles_. "One of the others."

"That guy that was with him?" Val nodded toward the window.

Motormaster smirked. "I wish they'd done that. The police would still be looking for the bodies."

Val's eyebrows rose at that, but then her expression turned thoughtful. "So it's one of the other two. I haven't seen them yet."

"You might have seen him," he said. He'd sent Dead End out for food and coffee more than once. "You wouldn't have seen the other one." Breakdown rarely left the apartment.

"What's he look like?" she asked.

Motormaster frowned, momentarily stumped by the question. He'd never actually had to describe a member of his team to an outsider before; all of the Decepticons knew who they were, some even before they were sparked. And Dead End's human form bore little resemblance to his former frame in any case.

"He might've been wearing a red shirt," he said finally. "And he uses big words."

Val blinked. "Could you be a little more specific?"

Motormaster thought for a moment. "Talks with an accent and looks miserably depressed all the time."

"Oh." Val frowned. "Kinda pale, good-looking? Dresses like a GQ model?" At his puzzled look, she added, "Auburn hair, green eyes?

It took Motormaster a moment to remember what color Dead End's optics were. "Yeah. Only one of 'em is black now."

"I've seen him." Val's lips thinned, and after a moment she asked, "Did they do anything else to him?"

Motormaster shrugged. "He'll live. He'd probably say otherwise, but he wasn't that damaged."

"Well, I'm glad he's all right."

_He's not "all right". _Once again Motormaster remembered what Dead End had said to him, how _angry_ he'd been. Dead End had never whined about getting slagged. But then, it had always been Motormaster doling out the punishment. If another Decepticon had a grievance with one of his team, Motormaster was the one they dealt with. No 'con would ever attack one of his subordinates without going through him. Decepticons respected the chain of command. Ominsky, on the other hand, did not, and Motormaster found that baffling.

"Why'd they go after him instead of me?" he said, almost to himself.

Val gave him a longsuffering look. "If you're dead or in the hospital, how are you supposed to repay the money?" she said. "_I_ know you don't plan on doing that. But the guy you borrowed it from… until he's paid, he'll just keep getting at you in any way he can."

Motormaster stared at her. "You mean he'll go after one of the others next?"

"Guys like that always go for the people closest to you," Val said, looking thoughtful. "Like…your family."

Another flare of anger rose, hot as acid in his chest. _If she knew I'd never be a target, why the frag didn't she say so before? I could have…_ He paused, suddenly unsure of what he could have done when two of his subordinates routinely left their base to earn the money they needed, to go to the jobs that he'd insisted they find. Like a circle closing, he seemed to come back to his own actions.

_It really is my fault._ This time, the rage he felt was slow, cold and infinitely more dangerous. He'd put his entire team in jeopardy, made them targets for a human who didn't respect the rules—

"These guys you live with..." Val ventured hesitantly. "They're not just your roommates, are they?"

Motormaster looked at her for a long silent moment, until she flinched back a little into her chair. "You want to stop right there," he said with a deceptive quietness.

Val held up her hands. "Sure, okay."

That didn't put him at ease – how much did she suspect? "What do you think we are, if we're not roommates?" he said.

"I dunno." She twitched a shoulder in a shrug. "Maybe you're a crack commando unit that was sent to prison by a military court for a crime you didn't commit, but you promptly escaped from a maximum security stockade and today, still wanted by the government, you survive as soldiers of fortune."

Motormaster realized his mouth was half-open, and shut it with a snap. He was torn between bewilderment that Val had thought up such a convoluted past for his team, and relief that she had gotten it so wrong… except for the "crack commando unit" part. If she came any closer to the truth, he would have to silence her.

"Never mind," Val said, her tentative smile fading. "It was a joke."

_I've never felt less like laughing._ "If you're done with trying to be funny, tell me – what if the guy can't get to my roommates? Will he leave us alone?"

Val frowned. "I guess he'll go after you if he's got no other choice – and if he's got enough thugs to risk it."

Motormaster relaxed a little. He could deal with any number of humans, and that would buy Breakdown enough time to contact the base. "All right, that's what we'll do."

"What do you mean?" Val said. "Are you going to send your roommates out of town?"

Motormaster made a contemptuous sound. His team wouldn't be able to cope without him – but below that knowledge was a tiny, sneaking suspicion that he might not do so well without them either. "No way," he said. "I'll keep them all in our apartment and they'll be safe."

Val blinked. "What, you're gonna barricade the doors?"

"Sure, if anyone tries to break in."

"Tom…" Val leaned forward. "I can tell you're serious about this… this siege, but don't your roommates have jobs? And won't you all need food?"

"I'll go out for that." Motormaster got up, because when he had a plan of action he lost no time in carrying it out. "And then anyone who's got a problem with us can deal with me."

Val expelled a small breath and shook her head, but she didn't reply, which was fine with him. It was strange. Unlike his team, she knew nothing rather than everything about their situation, and yet he could never have spoken so freely to his subordinates. They had to see him as strong, unshaken, absolutely certain. With Val, that didn't matter so much.

But that made him think of something else. "Do you have a gun?" he said.

"No!" Val looked startled.

"Get one," Motormaster said, and started for the door.

"Why?" Val said. "Do you want me to join the siege too?"

Motormaster turned, his lip curling. Was that another stupid joke, or did she really believe that he wanted to defend five smaller, weaker people instead of four?

"They might go after you too," he said.

"Oh." Val paused, then looked away. "Uh… it's getting late. I need to lock up."

Motormaster nodded and left the deli, his long strides taking him back to the apartment in moments. It was time to prepare for war.


	23. Garage Fever

_Chapter summary : Drag Strip gives his final performance and goes out with a bang._

_Authors' note : Due to the time of year (and final exams!), Crash Course will be on hiatus for December and the first half of January. We hope you're enjoying the story and will join us again when the Stunticons return. _

_-anon_decepticon and QoS/mdperera_

_Thanks to Kookaburra 1701 for support and input, and to all our readers!

* * *

_

**Chapter 23 : Garage Fever**

The air was near-solid with smoke. Metal rasped and clanked against the pitted ground as Megatron dragged himself away from the greying frame of his defeated enemy. Only the runnels of fuel and oil leaking from broken lines eased his torturous progress.

Drag Strip hurried forward with his gun in hand, and dropped to his knees before Megatron, though he remained on alert for anything moving in the vicinity. "You've triumphed, Megatron!" he said. "The Autobots have lost and their leader has fallen!"

Megatron tried to raise himself on arms that trembled – and then sank back to the ground, though he raised his head to look Drag Strip in the optics. "So has yours," he whispered.

"What do you mean?" Drag Strip said, startled. "You still function!"

"Not for much longer," Megatron wheezed. "Another must lead the Decepticons now."

"Me?" Drag Strip took a quick look around, just in case Starscream was watching.

"You." Despite the terrible damage he had taken – both his legs were severed, Drag Strip realized – Megatron's optics burned like suns going nova. "I created the Stunticons to be the best of my forces, just as I created you to be the first among equals."

Each word was an effort, and with an even greater force of will Megatron reached for Drag Strip's right arm and drew it closer.

"I did only what you expected of me, my lord," Drag Strip said modestly, opening one of the Stunticon channels. "Everyone, listen!" he said over the radio. "Megatron's making me the leader of all Decepticons!"

He cut the transmission just before Motormaster could say a word, but in the second or two he'd been busy with that, Megatron managed to wrench off his fusion cannon. Biting back a groan of pain, he pressed the weapon down on Drag Strip's arm.

"Now lead our forces… and all of Cybertron… to a glorious future," he whispered and deactivated.

"Uh… sure." Drag Strip decided that his first order of business as the Decepticon leader would be an order to the Constructicons to make the cannon lighter, aerodynamic and above all shorter. The weapon extended well beyond his fingertips, which meant that if he tried to lift a cube to his mouth, he would smash his own face in. He could repaint it yellow, though; he kept a can of paint for touch-ups.

He reached into subspace and his fingers thudded against warm solid flesh.

_Damn it! _His hand flopping to the mattress, Drag Strip tried for a moment longer to keep the fantasy going, but it wasn't any use. That was his last-resort scenario, the one he dreamed up when nothing else worked, and even then he couldn't will himself back into it. Three days of being penned up in their apartment meant even his imagination was more or less exhausted.

His frame, on the other hand, felt as tightly coiled as a spring. Normally he would have worked on his dance moves, but what was the point of that when he didn't even know when he could return to the club?

_And besides, it's not like I have an audience capable of appreciating it_. On the first day of the involuntary confinement he'd been hopeful it would all end soon, so he had practised the matador routine with Wildrider and Breakdown watching. They had both started laughing uncontrollably halfway through.

Drag Strip had stopped with his shirt half off. "What the frag is so funny?"

"You sound like you're selling face cream," Breakdown had managed to explain. "You keep saying, 'Olay! Olay!'"

Drag Strip had gathered up his clothes and the remains of his dignity and stalked into the bedroom, where he had more or less remained from then on, alternating between watching TV and brooding over what to do about his job. On the first day he had called in sick but when Gaby had asked him what exactly was the matter, he had gone blank. What kinds of illnesses did humans get? If he said he had a broken leg but then Motormaster found and killed the loan shark the next day, would it look suspicious when he went back to the club immediately?

And on the second day Gaby had sounded downright skeptical. "Professionals do their jobs short of an emergency, Sid," she said when he phoned the club. "If you can't do yours, I need to know that."

If he couldn't do his, Drag Strip guessed they would take down the poster advertising him, and someone else would become the star of the show. It would have happened sooner or later, when they contacted the base and he got his real frame back, but that wouldn't have been so unexpected. He would have had a chance to put on a spectacular final performance and leave everyone longing for more of what they would never see again.

Now, though, he would just be remembered as the guy who called in sick but couldn't say what was wrong with him. The one who wasn't a professional.

So his mood grew increasingly sullen as the day wore on, and only Motormaster's presence stopped him from complaining or picking a fight. Motormaster sat on the couch, cleaning the shotgun, though to Drag Strip's disappointment, the weapon didn't accidentally fire when it was pointing at Motormaster.

The others stayed out of his way as well – even Wildrider, who was all but climbing the walls with boredom. Motormaster had made it clear to him that if he left the base without permission, his teammates would suffer the consequences for it, and while Wildrider shrugged off his own beatings, he couldn't take being ignored or ostracized by the team. Dead End was even more catatonic than usual, and even Breakdown didn't speak to anyone or suggest any games when Motormaster went out at noon to buy their lunch.

The phone rang when he was gone, though, and Drag Strip scrambled out of bed, wondering if it was for him. Surely he couldn't have been fired just yet. But before he could reach the phone Breakdown answered it.

"Who is this?" he said suspiciously.

Drag Strip stopped in the doorway of his room, wondering if it was the loan shark calling for his money, because Breakdown's face had taken on an odd, closed look. When he spoke again, his voice was quieter but very intense.

"He doesn't want to speak to you," he said.

_Huh? _Drag Strip made is-that-for-me gestures, but Breakdown only shook his head and continued to speak. "He doesn't want anything to do with you. Don't call here again," he said, and put the phone down.

"What was that all about?" Drag Strip said curiously.

"Nothing." Breakdown sat down before the computer, folded his arms and glared at the screen.

_Everyone's going crazy, _Drag Strip thought. _Worse than the time we were all in the Autobot brig_. But they hadn't stayed there for long, and he didn't plan to rust away in their apartment either. He was going to the club tonight to give his last and greatest performance, whether Motormaster liked it or not.

He made his plans carefully. Motormaster would leave for work as usual at night – Drag Strip stewed over that, the fact that the overgrown bully had all the freedom of movement he denied the rest of them – but that also meant he would be able to slip out and return before Motormaster got back home. He wouldn't do so alone, though. For all Motormaster's half-witted brutality, he did have a point. Dead End had been attacked because he'd been alone and an easy target, so Drag Strip decided to take Wildrider with him.

Wildrider's eyes brightened like hi-beams when he heard what Drag Strip had in mind, but dimmed again almost as quickly. "You know what he said," he whispered, glancing at the closed door of their bedroom. "If he catches me leaving—"

"—he'll slag your teammates. I heard." Drag Strip shrugged. "But I'll be with you, so I'll be in it anyway, and he's not going to hit Dead End while he's still damaged. Or Breakdown, for that matter – who'll handle the computer if Breaks is passed out on the floor?"

Wildrider cheered up, as Drag Strip had known he would upon hearing such good sense. Really, he'd known since they were first brought online that Wildrider responded well to natural authority. No wonder Motormaster was unable to handle him.

With that settled, Drag Strip waited as patiently as he could until Motormaster left for work. Then he dressed hastily, applied his makeup and flung the door open. Breakdown and Dead End glanced up, startled, and gaped at him.

"Oh no." Breakdown recovered first. "You're not."

"Don't worry, I'm going with him," Wildrider said. "We'll be fine. Hey, you want me to buy you a magazine while we're out?"

Dead End nodded. "Better Tombs and Graveyards. We'll need it when Motormaster finds out."

Rolling his eyes, Drag Strip unlocked the front door. "I timed it yesterday. We can be back before he comes home, and if he gets back early, just tell him we're both asleep."

"What, so we can get slagged as well?" Breakdown said, but Drag Strip was already hurrying down the stairs. He heard Wildrider slam the door shut behind him, and even then Wildrider was so happy to finally be outside that he slid down all the banisters and reached the lobby first.

He was even more excited when they arrived at the club, to the point where Drag Strip started to worry a little, because he knew Wildrider's hyperactive moods. He found Wildrider a seat halfway between the stage and the door, but when the music began and he did his catwalk strut into the center of the stage, the first thing he saw was Wildrider's manic grin. His lunatic teammate had parked himself at the nearest table somehow.

Drag Strip actually faltered, knowing that something unexpected was going to happen – he just didn't know what. Wildrider saw the misstep at once, naturally, and waved a dollar bill at him, as if urging a favorite pet on with a doggy treat.

_Just one fragging dollar? _Drag Strip shook himself sharply; he was a professional and was going to behave like it. He caught the rhythm and began to ride it, his red cape alternately wrapping around his body and then snapping off sharply to one side, the perfect backdrop for his slim, muscular frame.

He started to relax, to get into the moment, and soon he was enjoying himself more than ever. This was his final performance, after all, his curtain call. He threw himself into it as enthusiastically as he had the first time as he flung off his clothes – but even over the cheers of the crowd, he heard a familiar whoop of glee, and a moment later Wildrider scrambled up onto a table and leaped off it, straight at the stage.

Drag Strip dropped the red cape and backpedaled hastily, but instead of crashing into him Wildrider grabbed the pole in mid-flight, twisted halfway around it and thumped down solidly, so hard the whole stage shook. "Wheeeee! Hey, this is fun, sunshine! Can I do it too?"

"No!" Drag Strip looked around frantically; his fans were just staring now, rather than clapping or gazing at him with worshipful lust. "Get off the stage! Security!"

"But I can take my clothes off too!" Wildrider protested, pulling his T-shirt over his head. "See? Faster than you!"

"The frag you are!" Drag Strip ripped off his scarf and tossed it into the audience, careless of where it landed.

Wildrider didn't even bother answering, only shimmied out of his jeans. The people started to cheer again but to Drag Strip's consternation, some of them seemed to looking at Wildrider rather than him. And although he knew that he himself was as high-voltage as it got, the air seemed to crackle around Wildrider. The reddish streaks in his hair burned under the spotlight and his eyes looked even darker compared to the hot glow. Drag Strip redoubled his efforts, hardly noticing the clothes that were strewn around and under his feet as he got rid of his trousers. The roar of the crowd drowned out the music as he tore off his sequined thong.

"I win!" he said, gasping.

Wildrider, still with his jockey shorts on, grinned widely, reached down and yanked hard on the red cape. Since Drag Strip was standing on that, he lost his balance and fell – straight into Wildrider's arms.

"Oh yeah?" Wildrider said and kissed him hard.

The world seemed to explode.

* * *

His curtain call, Drag Strip reflected on their way home, had definitely garnered mixed reviews. He'd thought it was because Wildrider hadn't stripped in time to the music, but Gaby had told him that if he hadn't been leaving, he would have been fired. The last thing she needed was for other patrons to think they could leap onto the stage and grope the dancers.

Plus, she said the club could have lost its license over what Wildrider had seemed ready to do before security separated them. "This is adult cabaret, not simulated sex in public!"

"It wasn't simulated," Wildrider had protested, but that didn't seem to help. So he and Drag Strip had been ushered out through a side entrance – much to Drag Strip's disappointment, since he didn't have the chance to wave goodbye and blow kisses to the fans who had appreciated the performance. And although they had raked in the cash as usual, the session in the manager's office had taken longer than he had expected. He kept glancing at the clock on the cab driver's dashboard, and once they reached the apartment he rushed into the lobby and headed for the stairs.

But he soon realized Wildrider was dawdling in the lobby. "Hurry up!" he snapped.

Wildrider loped over to him, clutching an envelope. "Look what I found! We got mail!"

Drag Strip took it from him. Even before he saw Motormaster's human name written on the front, he could tell there was something rectangular and inflexible inside, like pieces of stiff card. He turned the envelope over, wondering if it was from the woman who ran the deli, but there was no return address on it anywhere.

He handed it back to Wildrider and they hurried up the rest of the stairs. Drag Strip found his key and unlocked the apartment door, making shushing motions at Wildrider with his free hand. Primus's piston pump, did he really have to speculate aloud on whether Motormaster had won the lottery? As quietly as he could, he slipped in and shut the door behind Wildrider with a soft click.

Breakdown glanced up from the computer but no one else was in the living-room. Drag Strip relaxed, starting to smile at him. "I guess we made it!"

"Guess again," Motormaster said from the kitchen.

Drag Strip started so badly that he nearly bumped into Wildrider. The two of them moved apart instinctively as Motormaster came out into the living-room, his strides slow and deliberate. For a crazy moment Drag Strip thought he could feel the floorboards vibrating with each step.

"You disobeyed orders," Motormaster said softly. He glanced at Wildrider as if noting and dismissing his presence, and then his gaze fixed like a targeting lock on Drag Strip.

Drag Strip's mouth went dry and his throat tightened as if an invisible fist had closed around his neck. Motormaster came forward, steadily and inexorably closing the distance between them.

If his teammates said or did anything, Drag Strip didn't even notice; the universe seemed to have narrowed down to two people. And Motormaster was likely to make that two into one. He looked around desperately for something to put between himself and his leader.

There was the table on which the computer now stood, but if he damaged that, he would have Breakdown as well as Motormaster to deal with. _The couch, then._ His feet felt as though they had been nailed to the floor, but when Motormaster reached him and lashed out, Drag Strip managed to move. Motormaster's roundhouse blow missed him by inches as he scrambled back and dodged around the couch. He nearly tripped over something left lying on the floor, but recovered his balance in time and continued to backpedal, never daring to take his eyes off Motormaster.

He also didn't dare to think of where the chase – _no, call it what it really is, a stalk_ – would end up, mostly because he knew from long experience that the longer Motormaster had to wait to mete out punishment, the angrier he would become. Motormaster followed him around the couch, eyes narrowed and intense, face set in a icy blankness that was somehow even more frightening than his usual expression.

Drag Strip retreated so that the couch was between them, his heart hammering. _What am I going to do?_ A dozen different options whirled through his head, each worse than the last, and beneath it all was a small terrified voice saying, _please don't let it hurt too much, please don't let it—_

Motormaster reached out again, this time at the couch. For a moment Drag Strip thought he was going to simply rip it off the floor and fling it away, but instead his large hand came up clutching Drag Strip's makeup kit. He flung it at the wall so hard that Drag Strip heard the mirror inside crack, and the case itself popped open as it hit the floor. Motormaster brought one boot down on it hard, grinding the small squares of powder.

_At least you wouldn't have needed to use that again_, whispered a voice which sounded like Dead End at his most fatalistic.

"Boss?" Wildrider said nervously. "Y-you wanna take a look at this? You got mail from someone."

Motormaster turned, frowning. "Mail?"

Wildrider handed it to him at arm's length, and Drag Strip took the opportunity to breathe in deeply – he didn't think he had done that since Motormaster had emerged from the kitchen. Motormaster ripped the envelope open. _Maybe that'll distract him. All right, _think,_ Drag Strip, find a way out of this—_

Motormaster took two photographs out of the torn envelope, and his eyes widened. He looked up at the wall, then back at the photographs as if he couldn't believe what he had just seen.

"What's wrong?" Dead End said.

Motormaster thrust the photographs at him as though they were an unexploded grenade. "How the frag?" He stared around the apartment as if searching for something hiding in a corner or under a chair.

Drag Strip took a cautious step back, and then another, but Motormaster didn't seem to notice. Dead End studied the photographs with no change in expression, but when Breakdown saw them all the color drained out of his face. Drag Strip paused and craned his head for a look as well.

One of the snapshots was of the half-open door to Motormaster's room, showing his Security T-shirt from the 121 club lying on the floor. The other was of their wall, the one with the spray of bullet holes.

Wildrider picked up the envelope and fished a piece of paper out of it. "Ooh, there's a letter too. Says we'll have a lot more holes in the wall if we don't pay up."

"They've got cameras in here," Breakdown whispered, pushing his chair back against the opposite wall as if trying to blend into it. "They installed cameras, they're watching us—"

"Shut the frag up!" Motormaster spun around, his face twisted almost beyond recognition. "How could anyone have done that without being seen? We've never left the base unattended. And no one's been here except that idiot landlord."

"And those hu—" Wildrider stopped, but it was too late.

Motormaster turned on him. "And who?"

Wildrider swallowed, looking like a turbofox in the headlights, and Dead End spoke up. "Two humans came here a few days ago. They wanted to discuss the human version of Primus."

Drag Strip felt a sickening lurch in his stomach, and Motormaster's brows came together. "Which of you morons let them in?"

_Oh no. No._ Drag Strip closed his eyes, but he didn't need to have them open to know that the resulting silence was answer enough. He could almost feel the weight of Motormaster's stare on him.

With an effort of will, he forced his eyes open, because Motormaster called it cowardice when any of them tried to look away from a punishment. "I did," he whispered.

What felt like a year passed before Motormaster said, "And did you leave them alone when they were here, in our base, so they could take these pictures?"

Drag Strip managed a nod.

It happened fast, and yet he seemed to see it in slow-motion. Motormaster covered the distance between them and drew back his arm to strike. Drag Strip had an instant to hope the first punch would knock him unconscious so he wouldn't feel the ones that followed.

Then Motormaster's hand flashed out and grabbed a fistful of blond hair. He yanked upward with all his strength.

Drag Strip's feet left the floor. He screamed in agony, struggling and flailing, but that only made his scalp hurt worse, as though it was being torn off his head. His vision went white – as if from a distance he heard Motormaster snarl at him to shut up, _shut up frag you shut up!_ but the sound of his own shrieks all but drowned that out.

Then Motormaster swung his arm to one side and rammed him face-first into the wall.

Drag Strip thought he had died. The impact roared through his head, so intense that at first he didn't even feel the pain in the conventional sense, only a great numbness. When Motormaster released his hair a second later, his knees gave way and he slid down to the floor in a heap. For a moment all he could do was huddle there and process the realization that he was still functioning.

He tried to breathe, but his body expelled the air again almost at once with a small raw sound. Heat dripped from his nose, and his lips stung. He tried to open his eyes, to see what had happened to him, but they didn't work either – everything was blurred. Most frightening of all, he couldn't breathe. His chest tightened as he gasped, choking and even more terrified.

"Drag Strip?" Vaguely he recognized the voice as Breakdown's, and when arms went around him he clung to what felt like the only solidity in the world. More liquid was trickling from his face now, from what felt like new wounds in his eyes, and his sobbing breaths did nothing to ease the tightness in his chest.

Breakdown's presence helped, though, and after a few moments he managed to speak. "He – he broke my optics. They won't stop leaking." He groped about for something to blot that with before it stained his blazer.

"Take him into the bedroom, Breakdown," he heard Dead End say, his voice strangely cold. "Wildrider, get some ice."

Drag Strip wondered why Dead End was giving orders – Motormaster would be even more angry about that. But there was no sign of Motormaster in the living-room when he finally blinked his vision clear. It didn't reassure him, though. Motormaster was probably in his own bedroom, waiting to continue the punishment.

Breakdown helped him remove his blazer and the rest of his clothes, then took them to the washracks. Wildrider fetched the ice, and Drag Strip felt a little better with that pressed to his face. It was easier to breathe now. He lay down on the mattress, exhausted, and Wildrider tossed him a small brown object in a plastic bag before bouncing onto the bed as well.

Drag Strip sniffled. "What's this?"

"It's a brownie Marce made, but you can eat it," Wildrider told him. "It's kind of squished because I had it in my back pocket and sat on it, but I'll bet it still tastes pretty good."

Dead End and Breakdown came in, shutting the door quietly behind them. Drag Strip looked up at once.

"Where is he?" he said, hating the fear that drove through him as he spoke. His face still throbbed, despite the ice.

"He went out," Dead End said, as laconic as always.

"He's sitting on the step just outside the building," Breakdown said. "You can see him from the window in the kitchen."

Drag Strip relaxed a little. If Motormaster was sitting outside, he was a little less likely to come tearing back upstairs in a murderous rage. Not that it mattered particularly now. His nose was swollen and his hair felt as though some of it had been torn out by the roots. He passed a shaky hand over the top of his head.

"Do you want me to brush your hair?" Dead End said.

Drag Strip was so startled by the offer that he nodded before he could think twice. He could only hope the process wouldn't be too painful, but Dead End was so careful that there was no discomfort. Drag Strip hoped his efforts would cover any bald spots Motormaster had made.

Breakdown curled up beside him, while Wildrider sprawled across the rest of the mattress and turned the TV on. Dead End finished and handed him a paper napkin to blot the cold water dripping from the handful of ice. The bleeding had stopped, Drag Strip noticed.

"What are we going to do?" he said, not sure to whom he was speaking. Perhaps it was to all of them, to the greater whole that they formed when they came together. "About… everything?" Ominsky seemed to be ahead of them, aware of tricks that they wouldn't see through until it was too late, and he didn't know what the loan shark would do when his tricks didn't yield the expected money.

Breakdown rubbed his upper arm. "Go to sleep," he said. His voice was as gentle as his touch, but there was a new look in his eyes – a fixed, steady purpose. "I'll think of something."


	24. Hit and Run

_Authors' note : Aaaaaand we're back! Thanks to everyone for their patience. Future updates will be posted bi-weekly every other Thursday._

_Chapter summary : Breakdown works on contacting the Nemesis, and takes out a rival._

_-anon_decepticon and QoS/mdperera_

_Thanks to Kookaburra 1701 for support and input, and to all our readers!

* * *

_

**Chapter 24 – Hit and Run**

Breakdown blinked up at the ceiling, trying to figure out what had woken him. He sat up carefully, disentangling himself from the offline forms of his recharging gestaltmates. Drag Strip, curled up at his side, twitched and whimpered in his sleep.

Dead End was on his other side, and Breakdown was pleased to note that his face looked almost normal again. Over the past few days, Dead End's bruises had gone through a startling spectrum of colors ranging from angry red and blackish-purple to various sickly shades of green and yellow, but they appeared to be fading.

Breakdown smiled a little at that. When Motormaster announced that they were all confined to the base until further notice, Dead End had replied that he had no intention of going anywhere looking so hideous anyway, but Breakdown suspected the damage to his appearance bothered Dead End more than he was willing to admit. _I'll have to tell him he looks better when he wakes up._

Drag Strip, on the other hand, was an absolute mess, his features swollen and discolored almost beyond recognition. Somehow the damage seemed worse for being so _human_, disturbing in a way that scuffs and dents had never been.

A sick feeling rose up in the pit of his stomach as Breakdown examined Drag Strip's injuries. They'd all suffered their share of beatings at Motormaster's hands – Drag Strip more than most – but last night had been different.

_Primus, I thought he'd killed him._ Breakdown squeezed his eyes shut, trying not to remember Drag Strip's screams, or the awful, broken sounds he'd made as he clung to Breakdown like he was the only solid thing left in the universe.

Breakdown had never been so afraid, not even that time he'd been set on fire. And he hadn't been the only one. Last night terror had filled the room like a living presence, so palpable Breakdown had wondered if the gestalt link might still be active in spite of their human forms.

He tried to remind himself that Drag Strip had earned his punishment, that he'd let humans with a _camera_ into their apartment, but looking at his damaged face, Breakdown couldn't bring himself to feel angry at him. How could Drag Strip have known those two humans were spies?

Being human was scary enough all on its own, but until now the only danger had lain in being discovered. As long as they kept their helms down and passed for normal humans, the threat their condition presented was minimal. Breakdown was good at lying low, but he knew hiding wouldn't save them from an enemy that knew where they lived, one who'd even been _inside_ their base. Sooner or later an attack would come, and with two of them injured, Breakdown wasn't sure they'd survive it.

_I have to get through to the_ Nemesis, he thought. _I have to._ He'd finished the program yesterday, but there hadn't been time to test it. He hadn't told any of the others it was ready; he wouldn't until he was sure that it worked.

_I'll do it now, while everyone's still asleep._ Extricating himself from the bed without waking the others was tricky, but he managed it. Once he was separated from the warmth of their bodies, the apartment seemed colder than usual, so he dressed quickly before slipping out into the hallway.

On his way to the living room, he noticed the door to Motormaster's room was open. He frowned and headed for the kitchen, switching on the computer along the way.

Motormaster was right where he'd been the last time Breakdown had seen him, sitting on the steps outside their apartment building. Breakdown scowled at that, turning away from the window to put on a pot of coffee. _Probably thinks he's standing guard_, he thought resentfully. That hadn't helped Drag Strip last night.

Once he'd gotten the coffee brewing, he went back to the computer. It had finished booting up, so he logged into one of his fake accounts and hacked into a human communications satellite, initiating a transmission to the _Nemesis_ using the satellite's equipment. That was the easy part. The hard part would be getting the _Nemesis'_ far superior communications array to respond.

Breakdown had written his program to get through the _Nemesis'_ security protocols, a series of passcode encryptions normally entered automatically by the connecting Decepticon's CPU. Without a designated comm frequency or a computer with comparable speed and processing power, Breakdown knew it would take far longer to reach the Decepticon base.

But when he finally established a connection, the first screen he encountered was one Breakdown had never seen before. Instead of the usual login prompt, he found himself presented with a series of options.

_1. Private transmission. 2. Reroute signal to alternate node. 3. Upload status report._

_Which one is right?_ Breakdown hesitated, uncertain. Should he attempt to send a private transmission to Megatron, or upload a report on their status? Why wasn't there an option to transmit an emergency distress beacon?

_Because it's a trap,_ he realized. After a moment's deliberation, he typed "0" – an option not displayed on the screen – and held his breath.

The screen flickered and presented him with a prompt to enter his access code. _I did it_, he thought, activating his program. _I got through!_ The access codes would have all been changed by now – they were updated frequently – but he'd designed his program to generate random codes until it found the right one. The screen scrolled upward rapidly as his program set to work, trying a new access code roughly once a second.

_So far, so good_. The program was working, albeit slowly. Breakdown wished there was a way to speed things along, but the passcodes required to connect with the _Nemesis_ were staggeringly complex, with countless possible variations. Numerous login attempts would be required before his program finally found the right one.

He was glad he hadn't told the others what he was doing. The last thing he needed was someone riding his tailpipe, demanding to know what was taking so long. Stunticons weren't known for their patience. After about twenty minutes, even Breakdown started to get a little bored. At first he'd been glued to the screen, but once he was sure his program was working, his attention began to drift.

It could take hours or even days to get through to the _Nemesis,_ assuming he got through at all. How quickly his program succeeded in finding the right access code depended largely on luck, and there was nothing Breakdown could do to make it happen any faster. But maybe there was something else he could do while he waited?

They had a computer now, after all, and Breakdown was a skilled hacker. Maybe he could find something on the internet that would help them to eliminate the loan shark as a threat? He was about to begin an internet search for the human when Dead End came into the living room.

"Morning," Breakdown greeted him.

Dead End paused on his way to the kitchen. "Is there coffee?"

He nodded. "I made some."

Dead End continued into the kitchen, and after a few minutes returned with a cup of coffee for himself and another for Breakdown. "Thanks," Breakdown said as he handed it to him.

Dead End opened his mouth to reply, but closed it abruptly when the door to the apartment swung open and Motormaster walked in. Breakdown hunched his shoulders at the sound of that familiar heavy tread, keeping his optics welded to the computer screen. A lengthy silence ensued.

"Breakdown, status report," Motormaster said.

"The program is working," he replied. "But I don't know how long it will take to get through."

Motormaster grunted in acknowledgement and started down the hall to his room. On the way there he bumped into Wildrider, but Motormaster ignored him, shouldering past him and slamming the door behind him.

Wildrider sneered, holding up a fist with his middle finger sticking out of it, then came down the hall to join them.

"How is he?" Dead End asked.

Wildrider shrugged. "Watching TV." He turned back toward the hallway. "Hey, sunshine! What do you want for breakfast?"

"Scrambled tofu, goat's milk yogurt with blueberries and a decaf cappuccino," Drag Strip called back. "And could you bring it to me in bed?"

The three of them exchanged a look that hovered somewhere between exasperation and amusement. "We don't have any of that slag," Wildrider shouted.

"Well, what do we have?"

Wildrider went into the kitchen. "We got Captain Crunch. Regular, or with crunch berries."

There was a pause. "Crunch berries."

A series of rustling and clattering sounds came from the kitchen, and a few minutes later Wildrider emerged with a pair of bowls, the empty cereal box tucked under his arm. "Milk's almost done," he murmured in an undertone as he passed them. "Better finish it off before _he_ does."

Breakdown looked at Dead End, who shrugged. "Breakfast it is, then."

Wildrider went into his room. "Look what I found in the cereal box!" Breakdown heard him say. "A little car! I think it's a Mazda 323."

"Where's _my_ car?" Drag Strip said.

* * *

After breakfast, Breakdown returned to the computer, and Dead End went into the washrack. Wildrider and Drag Strip remained in their room, probably watching daytime TV with the volume down low. Breakdown had just begun to think about taking a break for lunch when Motormaster reappeared.

He looked haggard, his eyes sunk deep in their sockets, his face shadowed with razor stubble. To Breakdown's relief, Motormaster didn't demand to know if he'd gotten through to the base yet; he strode past him without so much as a word.

"That human you borrowed the money from…" Breakdown asked as he went by. "What's his dessication?"

Motormaster paused, eyeing him with undisguised suspicion. "What? Oh. Ominsky," he said, and then continued on into the kitchen.

Breakdown frowned. A full name would have made his search easier, but he didn't want to risk further arousing Motormaster's suspicion by asking again. He set to work with what he had, the name "Ominsky" and their location, San Francisco.

He'd barely gotten started when Motormaster came back out. "Where's the milk?" he said.

"We're out," Dead End replied from behind him. He'd just come out of the washrack, and was blotting his wet hair with a towel. "I would have gone out to buy more, but my face has seen enough damage already."

Motormaster's eyes narrowed. "And breakfast?"

"We're out of that, too," Dead End replied. There was no change in his expression, but Breakdown had the distinct impression that he was enjoying himself.

From the look on his face, Motormaster shared his suspicions. "Fine," he said tightly. "I'll get more." He turned on his heel, heading for the door.

"We're also out of soap," Dead End said as Motormaster reached for the knob. Motormaster froze, his hand on the door, a line of tension vibrating up his backstrut.

The fuel pump in Breakdown's chest was pounding faster, but the bright smear on the wall where Drag Strip's face had struck it made him throw caution to the winds. "You should bring us something for lunch, too," he said.

"Sandwiches would be nice," Dead End agreed. "Perhaps some coffee as well."

"Anything else?" Motormaster replied through clenched denta. When there was no reply, he went out, slamming the door behind him.

Dead End turned back to him, his face a mask of calm indifference, as if baiting Motormaster was something they did every day. "And how are your efforts progressing?"

"I've made a connection, but I haven't found the right access code yet. It'll probably take a while; there are a lot of combinations to go through."

Dead End's eyebrows rose. "Well done, Breakdown. Perhaps our inevitable doom isn't quite as imminent as I thought."

It wasn't often that Breakdown got anything resembling praise from one of his teammates, and he felt his cheeks grow warm in response. "Thanks," he said quietly. He turned back to the computer to check on the program, feeling a renewed sense of determination. He _would_ get through to the _Nemesis_, and he'd find the loan shark, too. No human was going to break apart their team.

That reminded him of something else. "That human… the one who brought you home after those other humans assorted you?" he began cautiously, keeping his eyes locked on the computer screen.

"Assaulted," Dead End corrected him automatically. "Yes?"

"What was his name?"

There was a pause. "Trevor," Dead End replied.

"Last name?"

"…I don't know. Why?"

Breakdown shrugged. "Just furious. I mean, curious."

"Ah," Dead End said, sounding puzzled. When Breakdown didn't say anything more, he went back to their room to get dressed.

Breakdown scowled at the computer screen, recalling the voice he'd heard on the phone yesterday tentatively asking for Dead End. He'd known immediately who was calling, and the threat he represented.

It was obvious what the human wanted, and Breakdown knew if he succeeded in getting Dead End alone long enough, he'd probably get it. Dead End wouldn't say no; he never did. Breakdown had always sort of liked that about him – it was the only time he ever really got to be on top – but it also made Dead End vulnerable in a way none of the other Stunticons were.

He shot a resentful glare at their bedroom door, wishing that just once Dead End could have shaken off his usual apathy and told that human to go find someone else to frag. _You don't actually_ like_ him, do you?_

That thought hurt more than Breakdown cared to admit. Maybe Trevor – _dumb name for a human_ – never used the wrong words, or worried that people were staring at him. _Don't be an idiot_, he told himself. _Dead End hates being human; why would he want to frag one?_

_You can't have him_, he thought fiercely. _I'm gonna get through to the base, and get our bodies back. Then we can all go home, and you'll never see him again._

* * *

The rest of the afternoon passed uneventfully. Motormaster returned with sandwiches and enough food to last them several days, and after consuming his own, went back to his room. Breakdown ate his sandwich in front of the computer, barely glancing up from the screen when the others came out to claim theirs. The sunlight slanting in through the windows shifted and waned.

By dinnertime, Breakdown's program still hadn't found the right access code, and he'd made little progress in his search for the loan shark. Dinner itself was awkward; both Drag Strip and Motormaster came out of their rooms at the same time, and apart from an argument about whether they were eating chicken or mermaid – which Dead End settled by pointing out that the small print on the label said "tuna" – they'd eaten in silence.

That silence was broken when the phone rang.

Everyone looked at Motormaster. He glared back at them for a moment, then got up to answer it. "Yeah?"

"Yeah," he said again, glancing at Dead End, his face set into grim lines. "I got 'em."

"Sure," Motormaster said after a brief pause. "But only in person." He listened for a moment, then smirked. "You made sure I got your message, I want to make sure you get your money."

"All right," Motormaster said after another pause. "Where?" He snapped his fingers and pointed to the pen and paper Breakdown had left lying on the table next to the computer, and Breakdown jumped up to retrieve them. Motormaster took them from him and scribbled down what looked like an address.

"You'll get what I owe you," Motormaster said. "I promise you that." He hung up.

"Was that the loan shark?" Wildrider asked.

"Yeah," Motormaster said. "He's agreed to a meeting. Dead End, you're with me. The rest of you stay put. This ends tonight."

* * *

Even though Motormaster and Dead End were the most laconic members of the team, the apartment seemed quieter without them. Breakdown felt a little better about his lack of success in finding Ominsky, though – now that the elusive human had revealed himself, Breakdown's efforts to locate him were no longer necessary.

Of course, it could be a trap. It was possible Ominsky had simply underestimated how dangerous Motormaster was, but the loan shark had outmaneuvered them at least twice already, and Motormaster wasn't about to let that happen again. That was half the reason he'd taken Dead End with him. The other half was obvious.

Since they'd been ordered to stay behind, Wildrider and Drag Strip went back to their room. Breakdown checked the computer, but it was still trying different passcode combinations. Feeling restless and uneasy, he cleared the table and then went into the kitchen to clean up the mess Wildrider's attempts at cooking always left behind.

That kept him occupied for all of fifteen minutes – not nearly long enough. After consulting the map, Dead End had informed them that the meeting place Ominsky had chosen was several miles away, which meant they wouldn't be back for at least an hour, but Breakdown still found himself looking out the window anyway, hoping to spot some sign of their return.

What he saw there instead filled him with a quiet rage.

The human who'd brought Dead End home was outside, sitting on the front steps of their apartment building. As Breakdown watched, the human sat up a little straighter and twisted around, his hopeful expression clearly visible in the light that spilled from the recently-opened front door.

Breakdown turned away from the window with a scowl, yanking open the drawer that housed the small collection of eating utensils they'd accumulated. Among the plastic spoons and forks was the retractable knife he'd taken from the gang leader who had attacked them for invading his territory. Snatching it out of the drawer, Breakdown turned on his heel and stalked over to the front door.

He hesitated for a moment when he reached it, recalling Motormaster's orders for them to stay put. But Motormaster wouldn't be back for almost an hour, and a quick glance over his shoulder confirmed that Drag Strip and Wildrider were still in their room.

Opening the door as quietly as he was able, Breakdown slipped outside.

The human Trevor was still sitting on the steps when Breakdown reached the lobby, which only made him angrier. _Why doesn't he go away?_ He'd hoped to take the human by surprise, but as he approached the entrance, Trevor turned around, looking through the glass of the outer door.

Looking at _him_. Breakdown's stride faltered, but his anger kept him moving. Slipping a hand into his pocket to curl his fingers around the knife, he opened the door and went outside.

Hurrying down the steps, he started up the sidewalk without so much as a backward glance, his shoulders hunched. He knew the human was probably staring at him, but he did his best to ignore the prickling sensation between his shoulder blades and quickened his pace. _I'm just another human in a hurry. I don't even care about some moron sitting on the steps._

Once he'd gotten about halfway down the block, Breakdown ducked into an alley and circled back around the building, peering out around the corner to see if the human was still there.

He was, but now Trevor was on his feet and had turned to face the building, staring up at the windows. _Spying on us,_ Breakdown thought. _If I was up there looking out right now, he'd see me._ His fingers tightened so hard around the knife's hilt he was surprised they didn't dent it. He was behind the human before he even realized he was moving, the knife in hand, the tip of its blade pressed against Trevor's spine.

"Don't move," he hissed as Trevor stiffened. "Don't turn around, don't look at me."

The human raised his hands slowly. "Chill, man," he said. "What do you want, my wallet? It's in my back pocket."

"I don't want your fragging wallet." Breakdown kept his voice soft, but intense. "I want you to _go away._"

"Take it easy," Trevor replied. "I don't know what your deal is, but I'm just waiting for a friend –"

"He's _not_ your friend," Breakdown snapped, shoving the blade forward just enough to prick the human through his clothes. "He doesn't want anything to do with you!"

Trevor flinched. "Whoa, take it easy! I'm just – wait a minute, you – you're the guy on the phone, aren't you?"

Breakdown ignored the question. "You're going to leave," he said. "Don't come here. Don't call. He doesn't want to talk to you."

"Who the hell are you?" Trevor demanded.

"I'm the one who's telling you to go away," Breakdown said, his voice cold and hard. "Stop trying to see him. He doesn't want to see you. If you come here again, I'll find out. And if you ever _touch_ him again, I'll kill you. Understand?"

"S-sure, I understand," Trevor said, suddenly sounding a lot more nervous. "Dan's off limits."

_His name is _Dead End, Breakdown thought contemptuously, his lips twisting into a sneer. _But you don't even know that much, do you? Because you're nobody_. _Just a stupid human._

Grabbing Trevor's arm, Breakdown forced the human to shuffle around until he was facing the street, being careful to remain out of sight behind him. "Now get out of here, and don't come back. If you do, you're dead."

Shoving him away as forcefully as he could, Breakdown gave him a kick that sent the human sprawling. He was back inside the building before Trevor could pick himself up off the sidewalk, hastily pocketing the knife as he shot up the stairs. _I was only gone a few minutes_, he thought frantically, hoping Wildrider and Drag Strip hadn't come out of their room to find him missing.

He fumbled for the knob, but then forced himself to stop and take several slow, deep breaths. Feeling marginally calmer, he opened the door as quietly as he able, just wide enough to slip inside and ease it shut behind him.

He'd made it.


	25. Braking and Entering

_Authors' note : Poor Breakdown. We ignore him for a dozen chapters, and then give him two in a row! And he's got another one coming up – sorry, Breaks._

_Chapter summary : Breakdown holds down the fort._

_-anon_decepticon and QoS/mdperera_

_Thanks to Kookaburra 1701 for support and input, and to all our readers!

* * *

_

**Chapter 25 – Braking and Entering**

Glancing around the living room, Breakdown breathed a sigh of relief. The room was empty, and he could hear the television playing faintly in the background. When neither Wildrider nor Drag Strip came out to investigate the sound of the door opening, he allowed himself to relax. All he had to do now was sneak back to the computer, and they'd never know he'd even left the apartment.

He'd made it nearly halfway across the living room when the phone rang, startling him so badly he nearly jumped out of his skin. Not pausing to wonder who might be calling, Breakdown snatched it out of the cradle on the first ring.

"Hello?" he asked breathlessly, fuel pounding in his ears.

"I need speak to my main man Mel, he around?"

Breakdown looked up, and spotted Wildrider and Drag Strip peering out of their bedroom. He waved them over. "It's for you," he said, holding the receiver out to Wildrider. "I think it's that guy you race for."

Wildrider's face lit up as he reached for the phone. "Hey Marce, what's up?" He listened for a moment, his optics brightening. "Frag, yeah!" Then his expression sobered. "But..."

"No, I do!" Wildrider insisted. "But I got a feeling it's gonna cost a lot more than a box of Captain Crunch, you know?"

Breakdown looked at Drag Strip, who shrugged and made a "give" motion at Wildrider. Wildrider covered the end of the receiver with his hand. "He says he's got a bike for me," he whispered. "A Husqvarna WR 125!" Then he went back to the phone. "Where'd you get it?"

"Oh, okay," Wildrider said, nodding. "Yeah, I've got someone I can bring with me," he added, looking at Drag Strip. "Sure, sure, I got time. See you in a few!" He hung up and turned back to them, grinning from ear to ear.

"You're not seriously thinking of asking me to sneak out again, are you?" Drag Strip said accusingly.

Wildrider's smile faltered. "Uh…"

Drag Strip sneered, which did unfortunate things to his damaged face. "Forget it. Take Breakdown with you."

Breakdown blinked. "Me? I'm not going. I don't want to get slagged. Besides, I've almost gotten through to the base."

Both of them stared at him in surprise. "You have?" Drag Strip said. "Well, then we don't need a motorcycle – we'll have our alt modes back soon."

Wildrider pouted. "But it's a WR 125," he whined. "It even has my initials on it!" He looked at Drag Strip with pleading optics. "C'mon! Marce said all we have to do it is come by and pick it up. We'll be back in no time!"

"And how are we supposed to explain where we got it?" Drag Strip asked pointedly.

"We'll say Marce brought it to us," Wildrider said. "And that we only took it because we thought it would help with the loan shark."

Drag Strip looked dubious, and Breakdown didn't blame him. Wildrider's lies were rarely convincing. He looked about to refuse, but then Wildrider played his trump card. "I'll let you ride it first," he offered. "Just think of it, sunshine – the wind in your face, a real set of wheels under you…"

Drag Strip folded his arms over his chest, but he couldn't hide the look of longing in his eyes. "Fine, I'll go," he relented. "But if we get caught, it was all _your_ idea – I only went along to keep you out of trouble."

Wildrider beamed and bounced over to the door. "Then what are we waiting for? Let's go!" He continued to burble enthusiastically about the bike, but Drag Strip hesitated, looking at Breakdown.

"Will you be all right here alone?" he asked.

Breakdown blinked, surprised he'd even bothered to ask. "Why wouldn't I be?" he said, feeling vaguely insulted. He was a Stunticon, after all. "I've got the shotgun, and I'll lock the door after you leave. It's not like you're gonna be gone that long."

"Better not be," Drag Strip replied, glaring at Wildrider.

"Marce's place isn't far," Wildrider assured him. "If we run, we'll be there in fifteen minutes. And the trip back will be even shorter – because we'll have wheels!"

"So go already," Breakdown said. "Just don't be late. I don't want to get slagged because you two decided to go joyriding." He looked at Drag Strip as he said the last, knowing Wildrider might get it into his processor to do just that. _I'm counting on you_, that look said.

Drag Strip gave an almost imperceptible nod, then turned and hustled Wildrider out the door.

Breakdown locked it behind them and headed back to the computer. His program was still running, trying different access codes, so he went into the kitchen to put on a fresh pot of coffee. He'd stay up all night if he had to.

He checked the window again while he waited. There was no sign of Motormaster or Dead End – which was a good thing since Wildrider and Drag Strip weren't back yet – but at least the human Trevor was long gone. He turned back to the coffeemaker only to realize that he'd left his mug on the table next to the computer. He was just about to go get it when he heard a sound at the front door.

_That was quick,_ he thought with no small amount of relief, until it occurred to him that Drag Strip and Wildrider had left less than five minutes ago. Had they forgotten something and come back for it? Or had Motormaster and Dead End returned early? Not wanting to risk taking a beating in their stead, Breakdown warily poked his head out of the kitchen.

A strange human was standing in their living room.

Breakdown ducked back before the human could spot him, his mind racing. _Who is that? How did he get in? What does he want?_

The answers came to him readily enough; as humans, they only had one enemy to speak of – Ominsky, the loan shark. He had to repel this invasion of their base, but how? The shotgun was in Motormaster's closet, and there was no way Breakdown could get to it without alerting the human to his presence.

Casting about, he spied the cast iron frying pan Wildrider used to cook most of their meals. Breakdown reached for it, quietly easing it out of the sink, and hefted it experimentally. It felt heavy and solid.

Inching back to the door, Breakdown peeked out again. The human now had his back to him, and was busy pulling the cushions off of the couch one by one, feeling along the edges of each. _Looking for the money,_ Breakdown thought.

He fidgeted, his grip tightening around the handle of the frying pan. The human was larger than he was by a good margin, almost as big as Motormaster. But he obviously thought he was alone in the apartment, which meant he wouldn't be expecting an attack.

_If I rush him now, I might be able to hit him before he hears me and turns around – but what if he looks up before then?_ The human was a good three strides away, maybe four; far enough out of range to have time to react if he spotted Breakdown before he'd closed the distance.

Fear clutched at his chest as he wavered indecisively, torn between defending their base and staying right where he was. He knew the human wouldn't find the money he was looking for – there wasn't any to find – but he also knew Motormaster and Dead End or Drag Strip and Wildrider might return at any moment, tipping the odds sharply in their favor.

_Wait, or attack?_ Wildrider wouldn't hesitate. Neither would Motormaster. _What should I do?_

He was still trying to decide when the human straightened and moved away from the couch, his gaze focused on something off to Breakdown's right.

_The computer_. Cold dread welled up in his spark as the human moved closer, but it vanished in a searing burst of rage. They'd all worked so hard, sacrificed so much to get it–

_You're not touching that, _he thought_. It's _ours!

The thought of losing their last hope of getting their real bodies back catapulted Breakdown from his hiding place, his makeshift weapon raised high. The human had just enough time to turn as Breakdown brought the frying pan crashing down on his head. He looked so startled Breakdown nearly laughed out loud as the man crumpled to the floor.

_I did it!_ _I got him!_

But before he could stop to savor his victory, he heard a muffled thump and a series of rapid footsteps. A second man came charging out of the hallway leading to the bedrooms. Breakdown barely had time to register that the human had a gun before he raised it and fired.

Breakdown's hands jerked up reflexively as the gun went off. The sound was all wrong – a soft, muffled cough instead of a loud bang. There was a strange pinging whine, and the frying pan was torn half-out of his hand.

It wasn't until he felt the vibrations hammering up his arm that Breakdown realized the frying pan had deflected the bullet. He blinked in surprise, meeting the human's equally startled optics. For a second neither of them moved. Then the human took aim and fired again.

Breakdown flung himself to the side, but not before a flare of white-hot pain burned across his right shoulder. In desperation, he flung the frying pan up at the ceiling. It hit the overhead bulb with a brilliant flash and a loud _pop_, plunging the room into darkness. Breakdown struck the floor and rolled behind the couch.

The human cursed, giving Breakdown a general idea of his position as he crept quietly to the opposite end of the couch on his hands and knees. He heard the human shuffling around in the dark, but he didn't fire again. That was both good and bad. Breakdown doubted the couch would stop a bullet, but evidently the human was unwilling to waste his ammunition firing blind.

_Think, Breakdown, think._ The gun gave the human the advantage, but Breakdown knew the apartment's layout and had a better chance of navigating it successfully in the dark. If he could reach the shotgun in Motormaster's room, that would even the odds. But the human was in the way.

His path to the front door was clear, but fleeing wasn't an option. If he ran, the human would be left alone in their apartment, free to do whatever he pleased – including damage the computer. Breakdown couldn't allow that. This was their base, and the human was trespassing. Breakdown would defend it or die trying.

A shuffling footstep reached his audials, followed by another. From the sound, he guessed the human was trying to circle around the couch to find him. Breakdown inched further along, creeping around to the other side and poked his head up over the arm, trying to catch a glimpse of the gunman.

It was too dark to see the human clearly, but Breakdown could discern a faint silhouette in the dim light filtering into the apartment from the streetlamps outside, a darker patch of shadow amid the intervening gloom. He couldn't make out the human's optics, but from the way his head was turned, the human was staring right at him.

_He's looking at the couch, not me_, he thought, fighting to stay calm. His right shoulder throbbed in time with his heartbeat, but fear seemed to have chased away the pain. His sleeve felt wet, which meant he was leaking vital fluid, but Breakdown couldn't afford to worry about that now. He had to get to the shotgun.

In circling around to find him, the human had moved away from the hallway. That left Breakdown with a clear path to Motormaster's bedroom. But there was a wide stretch of open floor between it and him, and to reach it Breakdown would have to cross that distance. _Without_ getting shot.

_Without getting shot _again_,_ he amended. His shoulder was still throbbing, and his entire right arm felt numb. But his fingers responded when he tried to flex them, so there was still hope.

_If_ he could get to the shotgun.

First, he needed a distraction. He felt around on the floor, hoping to find something he could throw – a discarded boot would be good – but all he found was something small and rectangular that had slid underneath the couch. From the powdery coating it left on his fingertips, Breakdown guessed it had fallen out of Drag Strip's makeup kit.

_Good enough_. Taking a deep breath, he pulled himself up into a crouch. The muscles in his legs tensed like springs. He threw the tiny square in the general direction of the kitchen.

The moment it struck the wall he exploded into motion, not bothering to wait and see if his diversion had worked. Another soft muffled report made him flinch and duck instinctively, but he kept running, tearing across the open floor.

The door to Motormaster's room loomed up in front of him. Breakdown shot through it as if he were on fire, slamming it shut behind him. He flung the closet door open, grabbed the shotgun and whirled, leveling it at the door. At this range, the blast would obliterate both the door and anything beyond it. He squeezed the trigger.

It didn't budge.

Breakdown stared down at the gun. _Why didn't it fire?_ _Is it detective?_ With no time to figure out the cause of the malfunction – and wasn't it ironic to be on the losing side of _that_ equation – he reversed his grip on the barrel and moved to stand by the door, his back to the wall.

It flew open, propelled by a solid kick. There was a thump as the human threw himself back against the wall in anticipation of a counterattack. Breakdown tensed, poised to strike…and waited.

When his assault on Motormaster's bedroom door wasn't greeted with a hail of gunfire, the human shifted forward. He edged through the open doorway, his gun arm leading.

Breakdown swung the shotgun's stock like a club, bringing it down on the human's exposed forearm as hard as he could. The human's gun clattered to the floor and skittered under the bed.

The human swore and made a grab for the shotgun. He nearly tore it out of Breakdown's grip, but Breakdown wasn't about to surrender his only weapon. When the human tried to yank it away, Breakdown came with it, colliding with the human bodily and sending them both stumbling back down the narrow hallway.

The tug of war continued into the living room. The human was stronger, but Breakdown clung to the shotgun, refusing to relinquish his hold even when the human slammed him into a wall.

He aimed a kick at the human's legs, but struck only a glancing blow, and nearly took a fist to the head in return. He ducked and retreated, dragging the human along with him. Stupid though it seemed to be fighting over a gun that wouldn't even fire, Breakdown couldn't let go. What if the malfunction was only temporary? He held on.

Suddenly the human released his hold. Breakdown stumbled backward and crashed into the computer table, knocking over his chair. His empty coffee mug hit the floor at his feet and shattered.

Breakdown shot a quick glance behind him, afraid the computer might be close to doing the same. It wasn't, but the human used his brief distraction to take another swing at him. Breakdown tried to dodge the blow, but only partly succeeded; instead of slamming into his face, the human's fist struck his injured shoulder. His senses exploded in agony, and he lost his grip on the shotgun. The human jerked it away and flung it aside.

_Not the computer!_ Breakdown thought wildly, tackling him to the floor. The momentum of his charge sent them into a roll. The next thing Breakdown knew, the human was on top of him, his hands wrapped around his throat.

Breakdown's eyes widened as the human began to squeeze. All he could think of was how Wildrider had reacted when Motormaster had done that to him. He clawed at the human's arms, but the grip on his neck only grew tighter.

_He's trying to kill me._

He couldn't see the human's face anymore; a red haze obscured his vision. It wasn't _fair_. He'd been alone in the apartment for less than half an hour! Wildrider and Drag Strip would be back any minute, or Motormaster and Dead End –

But they would arrive too late.

_Was this how Dead End felt when he was attacked?_ Breakdown hadn't asked him for details, and Dead End hadn't volunteered any. Were these the same humans who had assaulted him?

His throat was constricted; he couldn't swallow. His fuel pump pounded in his chest, and his shoulder throbbed in sympathy. The human's weight held him pinned to the floor, and something hard was poking into his hip –

_My knife…_

Filled with a surge of sudden hope, Breakdown let go of the human's arms and groped for his pocket. His fingers found the knife and fumbled it out, his thumb triggering the mechanism. Then he plunged the blade deep into the human's side.

The human jerked back with a cry of pain, releasing him abruptly. Breakdown stabbed him again. The human staggered to his feet, his optics wide, clutching his injured side.

Breakdown's throat burned as he pushed himself upright, fighting to force air back into his lungs. He couldn't see the human in the dark, but from the sound of his shuffling footsteps and harsh, ragged breathing, Breakdown knew he'd injured him badly.

He expected the human to charge, to try and take the knife away from him, but when the man moved again, it was off to the side. Breakdown heard a click and turned toward the sound, tensing in anticipation. A swath of light slanted into the apartment.

He knew at once that the human was trying to escape – the light was coming from the hall outside. Breakdown lunged in that direction, slashing wildly with the knife, but only managed to open a gash in the back of the human's coat as he fled out into the hallway.

Breakdown was about to give chase, but then he remembered that the human hadn't been alone. Leaving the front door open so he'd have more light, he scanned the room for the shotgun and spotted it lying on the floor a short distance away. He bent to retrieve it, but kept his knife handy as he edged over to where he'd last seen the first human, the one he'd hit with the frying pan.

The human was gone.

_Is he still in the apartment?_ Breakdown wondered, looking around in dismay. _Or did he run away, too?_

There was only one way to be sure. After checking the rest of the living room, he closed the front door and locked it. From there he staggered into the kitchen, where he found a damp dishrag and some water on the floor, but no sign of the damaged human. His throat burned each time he swallowed, but the piece of ice he fumbled out of the freezer only made him cough – which hurt even worse.

His vision was starting to fuzz over, and his sleeve felt damp and sticky where the bullet had hit him, but he couldn't rest until he'd secured the base. It was getting increasingly difficult to walk – his feet felt like they had lead weights strapped to them – but Breakdown pressed on, clutching his wounded shoulder.

He stumbled as he neared the hallway, and only managed to keep from falling by bracing a hand flat against the wall. He rested there for a moment, breathing hard, then continued on to the bedrooms.

By the time he'd searched them all, Breakdown was leaning heavily on the shotgun, but satisfied that the apartment was empty. All of the bedrooms were clear, as was Motormaster's closet. The door to the washrack had been open when he passed it, the shower curtain drawn back, and the room itself was too small to hide in.

He headed there now, trying not to think about the locked front door and how it hadn't stopped the humans from entering. He _had_ to believe it would keep them out this time; he was too sore and weary to even consider the alternative.

The sight of his reflection in the washrack mirror made him gasp. The entire right side of his shirt was soaked red, the thin white cloth clinging to his skin. The shirt had been Dead End's before he'd bought the red one. Now they looked almost the same.

He looked down at his hands. They were red too, red and sticky, and felt faintly gritty. He looked up at the mirror again. A pale, frightened human stared back at him.

_I made a mess,_ he thought as he swayed on his feet. The room seemed darker than it had a moment ago. His head felt heavy, but at the same time incredibly light. His legs folded under him, and he sank to the floor.

_How much fluid can a human afford to lose?_


	26. Hazard Lights

_Authors' note : Motormaster delivers a little payback. Also, in the next few chapters one of the Stunticons is so seriously damaged he has to be taken to hospital – but it's not Breakdown. If you'd like to guess who it is, leave a comment naming your 'con of choice!_

_- anon_decepticon and QoS/mdperera_

_-Thanks to kookaburra1701 for her support and input!

* * *

_

**Chapter 26 : Hazard Lights**

The address Ominsky had given Motormaster led him to a building a few miles away, one that was still under construction. A crude fence surrounded it, but Motormaster bent one of the sheets of metal back so that he and Dead End could slip inside.

It was evening, so any humans who'd been working on the building had finished their duty shifts and gone, but the silence unsettled Motormaster. Keeping his back to the fence, he looked around warily, but there was no one in sight. The interior of the building was dark – the few wedges of light that made it past beams and girders were dim – and he watched it narrowly, wondering if Ominsky was planning to ambush them.

He picked up a pebble and tossed it inside the building, but when there was no responding barrage of gunfire, he ordered Dead End inside. Dead End looked at the dusty, unfinished building without enthusiasm, but a heavy shove sped him on his way, and once he'd disappeared into the shadowy interior, Motormaster felt better.

Taking his time, he paced his way around the structure's skeletal frame. He wasn't armed, but that didn't matter. If he was damaged or dead, Ominsky couldn't collect his money, so that ruled out the possibility of a sniper drawing a bead on him. That meant the attack was likely to be another ambush, and Motormaster was quite prepared for that.

He was a pressure furnace inside, ready to massacre any number of humans. Dead End was there not so much to provide backup as to witness for himself that Motormaster didn't allow any attack on his team go unavenged.

After three circuits of the building, though, nothing had happened. Motormaster stopped when he heard a sharp snap from inside the structure, but when he peered in, he found Dead End sitting comfortably with his back to a thick girder, an open can in one hand and a magazine in the other.

"Where the frag did you get those?" Motormaster could hardly believe it. Here he was, preparing for an attack, and his idiot subordinate was lounging about as though he were on vacation.

"I found a cache under a loose board." Dead End gestured vaguely ahead with the magazine. "The articles are somewhat interesting." An inner page of the magazine unfolded, and he tilted his head to study it. "That _can't_ be comfortable."

Motormaster would have enjoyed flattening the can against Dead End's head, but not under these circumstances, when he was expecting to be jumped by Ominsky's troops at any moment. He made a mental note to do it later and kept circling the building, his pace picking up as his impatience and frustration grew. What was Ominsky playing at? Was this all just an attempt to waste their time?

He heard a soft footstep nearby and spun around. The sound came from the inside of the building and he knew at once that it was only Dead End moving a little closer, but that didn't make him feel any better. The sky was growing darker, and the construction site was unlit.

"I'm beginning to think this might be a trap," Dead End said.

Motormaster heard a girder creak, and guessed Dead End was probably leaning his weight against it in that annoying can't-be-bothered-to-stand-upright habit he had. It was sloppy and unwarriorlike, but he'd also learned it was something that couldn't really be beaten out of Dead End.

"No slag," he said. "I figured that out too, genius. So mute your vocalizer, because that fragger Ominsky hasn't sprung it yet."

"Perhaps it's not a trap for us," Dead End said.

Motormaster felt the skin on the nape of his neck tighten and prickle in a reflex he controlled almost at once. His subordinates might give in to every whim or fear that crossed their slagged-up processors, but he didn't.

"If that human wants to take on three of us at once, he can try," he said contemptuously. "They've got the shotgun too." The thought of anyone luring him away from his base so they could attack it was infuriating, but somehow he couldn't see any such plan ending in success for Ominsky.

"He doesn't know that, though," Dead End said. "What are we going to do – wait here all night?"

Motormaster's jaws clenched. He hated being made to look a fool in front of anyone, let alone the mechs he commanded, and more than anything he wanted to meet Ominsky face-to-face, to finish this war once and for all. But now he saw that Ominsky would never risk that. He still wasn't sure what the human had hoped to do by luring him out here, but he did know that he had to cut his losses – and find some other way to settle the score.

"Fine," he said, turning on his heel. "Let's go."

It took them a quarter of an hour to reach a road where they could hail a cab, and Motormaster grew more frustrated with every step. He couldn't find a pay phone to contact his team, and he couldn't find Ominsky's own troops or base either.

Maybe the best thing to do was to ignore Ominsky for now, he decided as the cab drew up outside their building. The loan shark could do little to his team as long as they stayed together, so if Motormaster could stretch the stalemate out, that would buy them enough time for Breakdown to contact the _Nemesis_. Even if it took the Constructicons a little time to reverse the effects of the matter-energy convertor, Megatron would never sit by while humans attacked his most loyal troops. At the very least, the far more sophisticated computer on the _Nemesis_ might be able to trace Ominsky.

_Yes, that could work._ Motormaster was so preoccupied with the plan that he got out of the cab and had nearly reached the building's outer door before he realized that the cab driver was yelling at him for the fare. Motormaster turned, but before he could silence the insect, Dead End paid up and the cab took off with a squeal of tires.

Motormaster took the stairs two and three at a time, still thinking of his plan. True, it wasn't the head-on collision he preferred, but he would get his revenge on Ominsky eventually, after they contacted the base. All he had to do until then was keep everyone together and under some semblance of control… and not get lured away for any reason. He fished his key out of his pocket as he approached their apartment. Behind him Dead End was all but running to keep up, all pretence of languidity dropped. Motormaster grinned to himself as he unlocked the door.

He flipped on the light switch. Nothing happened.

Motormaster frowned, his amusement vanishing. He flicked the switch rapidly, to no effect. The apartment was silent except for the sound of the switch moving, and behind him Dead End had become equally still.

"Stay there," Motormaster whispered. The trap might be set in the darkened apartment itself, but it was his base – what if the rest of his team was lying damaged in there somewhere? He refused to consider any other possibility.

He stepped into the apartment. Something cracked under the sole of his boot.

"Breakdown!" His voice was tight, held under rigid control as he paced forward. The air smelled of coffee, burnt gunpowder and a coppery scent that he knew was blood. "Drag Strip! Wildrider!"

There was no answer. Motormaster nearly tripped over something, caught himself and stood in the dark, his hands raised to chest level in preparation for someone rushing him. _Don't just stand there, don't make yourself an easy target_. He slid back until his shoulders were against the wall, and then moved towards the kitchen. Anyone waiting to ambush him was more likely to be lying in wait in his personal quarters.

When he reached the kitchen, he glanced back at the open front door. Dead End was half out of sight behind the frame, unmoving. Motormaster reached for the kitchen light switch and flipped it, not sure what he would do if that didn't work either. But the kitchen light came on, and that was enough for him to see the living-room.

Breakdown's chair was overturned, a coffee mug lying in splinters nearby. The floor was splattered with dark stains and bits of broken glass. The computer screen flickered, scrolled through a meaningless display of alphanumerics, flashed an error message and repeated the process.

_Yes,_ Motormaster thought, unable to believe what he was just seeing. _This is an error. This has to be an error. This can't have happened to our base._ His gaze went from the computer to the wall just behind it. On the off-white paint was a smeared red handprint.

He heard an indrawn breath and spun in that direction, only to realize that Dead End had also seen the bloody handprint. Fingers tightened around the doorframe, but the rest of Dead End's body looked as though he was frozen in stasis lock. The sudden fear on his face drained away, leaving blankness behind.

Before he could think twice, Motormaster crossed the living-room in a few strides. He knew exactly what Dead End had just done – reached out instinctively through the gestalt bond in a desperate attempt to find Breakdown or Drag Strip or Wildrider, only to find nothing, because there was no longer any gestalt bond between them. He knew, because he had nearly done it himself.

His hands clamped around Dead End's shoulders so hard that he felt the unyielding human struts beneath the flesh. Dead End's gaze went to his, without even a flicker of recognition behind the nothingness.

"Don't you dare," Motormaster said tightly. He was more than prepared to hit Dead End if he had to, ram his head into the wall until one or the other broke… anything to keep what could be the last surviving member of his team with him. Dead End hating him would always be better than Dead End feeling nothing, doing nothing, not responding to him in any way.

He gave Dead End a sharp but hard shake – and even that was enough for the deepest part of his nature to strain against the shreds of his control. He wanted more, needed to hurt someone for what had happened to his team. If the rest of them were dead, so was he - he could never return to the base in any form or shape, because how could he tell Megatron that he had lost three members of his team?

"Don't," he said again. The strain in his vocalizer made the command sound more like a plea.

Dead End didn't move, but his eyes changed. They were different now, no longer like the optics of a drone that had never been brought online. He looked back at Motormaster with something closer to calmness than resignation, clearly waiting to hear what to do next.

Motormaster couldn't take the risk of releasing him, but he forced his fingers to open a little. "Right," he said, trying to breathe slowly so that the pounding of his fuel pump would decelerate as well. The first thing they needed to do was search and secure the base. "I'll get my gun while you—"

There was a soft furtive sound from somewhere within, the sound of a foot scuffing against the carpet. Motormaster felt his hands release Dead End of their own volition as he turned around. He stared into the near-darkness of the passageway that led to their personal quarters. The slow footsteps came closer and Motormaster's fingers curled into fists.

Breakdown appeared at the opening of the passageway.

The first thing Motormaster noticed were the dark stains that covered Breakdown's shirt, and his relief vanished in a rush of fury. He was aware of Dead End taking first one and then another tentative step into the base, but all he could think was that it had happened again. Ominsky had evaded him and struck at one of his subordinates. His only consolation was that whoever had actually invaded their base had to be dead, since Breakdown was leaning on the shotgun, using it like a crutch to support his weight.

Dead End stumbled against the couch and stopped, holding on to it with one hand. Motormaster glanced down and realized that the couch cushions had been removed, flung here and there. Dead End didn't seem to notice.

"Are you OK?" Breakdown said.

"Am – am _I_ OK?" Dead End said. "What about you? There's blood—"

"Shut up," Motormaster said. That was so typical of his subordinates – wasting time rather than getting to the facts of the matter. "How bad is the damage?"

"It's mostly stopped leaking," Breakdown said. "Just hurts. I can't move my arm."

Repairs had to take second place to security. "How many and where are they?"

"Two. They ran off."

That wasn't what Motormaster had expected to hear. He wondered why the humans were still alive, and could only hope that Wildrider and Drag Strip were tailing them back to Ominsky's base. Though knowing those two, they were more likely to give the humans a head start and then hunt them down gleefully and noisily.

He shut the front door and turned back to Breakdown. "Why didn't you shoot 'em?" He didn't think any human would be able to run after eating a shotgun blast.

"I couldn't," Breakdown said. "The gun wouldn't fire."

Motormaster took it from him with one hand, took Breakdown's arm with the other and dragged him to the couch while examining the gun. "No wonder, idiot!" He gave Breakdown a push forward, which sent him sprawling against Dead End. "The safety catch is still on!"

"Oh." Breakdown lowered himself to the couch, where Dead End had retrieved cushions for him to lie on. "My concussion rifle doesn't have a safety catch," he said lamely.

Motormaster snorted in disgust. "So how did you-"

Something clicked in the kitchen. Motormaster turned as the sound turned to a slow quiet creak – the sound of a window being carefully levered open.

"They came back," Breakdown whispered.

Motormaster flipped the safety catch off as Dead End rose silently. As the window swung open, he flattened himself against the wall just beside the kitchen door. Motormaster socked the butt of the shotgun against the hollow of his shoulder, smiling grimly. The humans would be pinned between him and Dead End now.

There were more furtive movements within the kitchen, the distinctive sounds of someone climbing through the window. _Two people,_ Motormaster thought, _just as Breakdown reported_. He heard the window click shut – almost drowning out the soft _snick_ of Breakdown's knife extending – and then quiet padding steps as the intruders crept towards them.

A muffled clang made him start, his finger tightening on the trigger, and someone thudded to the floor before scrambling up again. "Ow! Frag!"

"Shut up!" someone else whispered.

Dead End turned and flipped the kitchen light on. Drag Strip and Wildrider froze, staring into the barrel of the shotgun.

"Lose your key, Drag Strip?" Motormaster said softly.

In the silence, Dead End opened one of the kitchen cupboards and came back out with a new light bulb. Motormaster ignored him other than to move aside a little so Dead End could pick up the chair and stand on it to change the bulb. He had no intention of letting Drag Strip or Wildrider out of ramming range, since it was obvious they had sneaked out – and not to hunt down Ominsky's troops, either.

"Start talking," he said when the light came back on. "And make it good or I'll blow your kneecaps off."

Drag Strip looked at Wildrider, who offered up a sickly smile. "Uh," he began. "Marcelo called and told me he had a bike for me, so me and Drag Strip went over to collect it but it wasn't there when we arrived so Marce gave us beer and pretzels and said he was waiting for the guy who was bringing it—"

"Who was going to be there any minute," Drag Strip added when Wildrider stopped for breath.

"Yeah," Wildrider said. "So we waited and waited but then Marce got a call saying the delivery was off so we came back home." He trailed off into a nervous giggle. "Don't shoot us."

Dead End returned the chair to its spot behind the computer table and brushed the seat clean. "An intriguing coincidence," he said to Motormaster. "That just after we left, they should be called out on a similarly unproductive errand."

_Yeah,_ Motormaster thought. _The difference is that I know who was behind this one_. He lowered the barrel of the shotgun.

"We're gonna pay a little visit to this Marcelo," he said to Wildrider. Without looking, he tossed the shotgun to Dead End, who caught it in mid-air. "Let's go."

Wildrider nodded, but said nothing other than giving the cab driver directions. For once, the silence didn't seem to bother him, and he seemed intent on his own thoughts (such as they were). When the car stopped at a small apartment block, he leaped out and was halfway across the parking lot before Motormaster could catch up with him. After that Motormaster marched him into the apartment block with a hand on his shoulder. He had no intention of risking Marcelo recognizing Wildrider and realizing how much slag he was in.

"Which is the coward's apartment?" he said.

"Two-seventeen," Wildrider told him, and a few minutes later Motormaster arrived at the correct number. He shoved Wildrider to one side, out of sight of the peephole, and knocked lightly on the door.

A few moments passed before the door was unlocked. A security chain prevented it from opening fully, and a human's face peeked out through the narrow gap.

"Yeah?" the man said.

Motormaster pivoted and drove his foot at the door in a roundhouse kick. The security chain broke free of the wood and the door flew open.


	27. Vehicular Homicide

_Chapter summary : Payback is sweet… and tastes like chocolate._

_Authors' note : Also, one of you guessed correctly about which Stunticon ends up in hospital, but we're not telling who. :) _

– _anon_decepticon and QoS/mdperera_

_Thanks also to Kookaburra 1701 for her support and input!

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_

**Chapter 27 : Vehicular Homicid**e

The door flew open. It struck the human a glancing blow that sent him staggering back, but he recovered and spun around. Motormaster stepped in as the human sprang to the couch and shoved a hand between the cushions. He came up clutching a gun.

But Motormaster was far too close, and had never been afraid of any weapon pointed at him. His arm shot out and his hand closed around both the human's fingers and the pistol's grip. Before Marcelo could fire, Motormaster tightened his hand, squeezing with all his strength.

The human gasped. Motormaster could feel flesh crimping between the unyielding metal and his equally unyielding grip. Behind him, he heard Wildrider slam the door shut, and clamped down even harder, feeling bones grind beneath his fingers.

The human threw an uppercut with his free hand. Motormaster took the punch and rolled with it, then struck back. His other hand closed around the human's forearm. Still gripping the gun, he twisted both hands sharply in opposite directions.

The crunch of bone dislocating was almost drowned out by the human's scream. The gun dropped from nerveless fingers and Motormaster kicked it away before grabbing the human by his shirtfront. He slapped the man a few times to quiet him down.

"Is this the slagger you've been dealing with?" he said to Wildrider.

"Yeah. That's Marcelo." Wildrider was strangely expressionless other than a faint frown between his brows, as though he still didn't quite understand what was going on, but was trying to think it through. It was equally strange how quiet he was – Wildrider usually enjoyed a good fight and causing as much havoc as possible. Under any other circumstances, Motormaster would have expected him to be kicking over furniture and setting things on fire.

_He's gotten soft, like the rest of them,_ Motormaster thought bitterly. _Hangs around humans so much he thinks he's one of them._ Wildrider was out of reach, so he shook Marcelo instead.

"Who ordered you to call us with those lies about a bike for sale?" he demanded.

"I didn't want to!" The human actually had the gall to look at Wildrider, as if Wildrider had any kind of authority over Motormaster. "Mel, you gotta believe me—"

Motormaster slapped him again. "I'm asking the questions, not him. Got it? Who ordered you to call us?"

"Muh-Mr. Ominsky."

_Thought so. The strutless fragger – and Wildrider chose _this_ human as a friend! _"Where is he?"

"I don't know!" Sweat gleamed on Marcelo's face. "Truly, man, I don't! He never tell his address."

Motormaster supposed that was only too likely, but it didn't make him any happier. Still, even if the little rat had no information, Motormaster could still use him to make a point.

"So Ominsky gives you orders," he said without releasing Marcelo – he would not have put it past the human to pull another gun with his good hand. "That makes you one of his troops."

He twisted the human's shirt tight, like a noose growing into a knot. "You know what he did to _my_ troops?"

Marcelo licked dry lips. "No, man, I don't work for Ominsky. But that don't mean nothing, Ominsky's big time, when he say do something, you do."

"Even set up your friends?" Motormaster glanced at Wildrider, his lip curling. The human wasn't Wildrider's friend and never had been, and he wanted to make that perfectly clear.

"Hey, that's the way it work, man," Marcelo said. "Ain't no one else gonna look out for me, I gotta look out for myself. Ominsky's big league, Mel's just some punk who's good at racing. Which one you _won't_ piss off?"

"Just some punk." Wildrider's voice was toneless. "That's what you thought—"

"Shut up," Motormaster said to him, then smiled down at Marcelo. He let his mouth stretch into a slow grin and watched as terror sprang into the human's eyes.

"Yeah, he's a punk," he said softly. "But he's _my_ punk."

He released Marcelo's shirt – and closed both fists around the human's throat. He could easily have broken Marcelo's neck, but that would have been too quick, too painless and not enough of a lesson for Wildrider. So he did it slowly, his grip tightening fraction by gradual fraction like the two halves of a mechanical device winding shut.

Marcelo choked and gurgled, flailing uselessly at him. Blood suffused his face. Motormaster felt his smile grow wider. It was good to finally have a target for his rage, like opening a pressure valve and releasing what had been building up for far too long. He continued to squeeze inexorably, staring straight into the human's bulging eyes. It was only fitting that his face be the last thing Ominsky's tool ever saw.

After what felt like too short a time, Marcelo's body went completely limp, his head lolling on the half-snapped stalk of his neck. Motormaster waited a few more moments to be sure the job was done, then dropped the inert body.

_That's a good day's work,_ he thought. _Did it in the slagger's quarters, so I don't have to deal with disposing of anything. Did it quiet, so I can take my time looking through the place. And when Ominsky does find out, he'll know who was behind it. _Yes, it was a good job, all in all. He had even got a new gun out of it.

He looked over at Wildrider to make sure the warning hadn't been lost on him, but Wildrider just stared at Marcelo's body. "Is he dead?" he said.

"Is he… what the frag else would he be?" Motormaster punctuated that with a kick to the body, wondering if Wildrider was so far gone that he actually felt sorry for the vermin. "That's what you get for having human friends." And after this experience, he felt sure that Wildrider would never have another.

Wildrider's gaze flashed up to him at that, hot and sharp. His mouth was drawn at the corners. "What about you?" he demanded. "You've got a human friend too… that woman in the deli. The one you've been 'facing."

Motormaster crossed the distance between them in a second and backhanded him. Wildrider stumbled to one side, recovered his balance and backpedaled to the door. Motormaster would have followed if he had not just registered what Wildrider had said.

"Wait a second," he said. "_'Facing?_ C'mere and let me hit you again."

Wildrider groped for the doorknob behind him with one hand. "Uh, can it wait until we get home?"

Motormaster hesitated; as much as he would have liked to make Wildrider pay for that remark, those weren't the best circumstances. In the brief pause, Wildrider hurried on. "I could go get Marce's bike! We could finally have some wheels."

Motormaster gritted his teeth. He hated it when his subordinates got away with that kind of insolence, but the suggestion about the bike actually made sense. And he _could_ always discipline Wildrider later, when they returned to the base.

Or do something else with him. Something to show him he didn't need humans to 'face when insubordinate troops were close at hand. He felt a grin touch the corners of his mouth.

"Fine," he said. "Stay in the parking lot until I come down." He reached for the fallen gun and tucked it into his waistband as Wildrider let himself out.

To his disappointment, the gun seemed to be the only thing of real value in the apartment. He all but ransacked the place, growing more and more frustrated, especially since he knew Wildrider was outside by himself - Wildrider was even more unpredictable than usual when left alone to his own devices. He did find some cash – nearly five hundred dollars – but it wasn't much.

He was also hungry, having missed dinner, so he went into the kitchen. The fridge was mostly empty except for several cans of beer and a box of small brown slabs. Motormaster sniffed at them and recognized the scent of chocolate, like the donuts Val had once served him. He ate a few while looking through paperwork and documents he had found in Marcelo's personal quarters, but found nothing at all about Ominsky.

When he glanced up at the clock on the kitchen wall, he was startled by how much time had passed. It seemed to have taken much longer to examine the papers than he had expected. Once he was outside the apartment he paused, trying to think of something he had to retrieve.

_Oh yeah… Wildrider._ He looked around the empty corridor, but Wildrider was nowhere in sight. _No, parking lot. He's parked outside. Probably in a No Parking zone._ Motormaster grinned as he ambled downstairs – now that the problem was dealt with, there was no need for him to rush.

Out in the parking lot, Wildrider was leaning back with his hands planted on the pillion, trying to steer the bike with his feet. He managed to turn in Motormaster's general direction and stopped before crashing into him.

"Hey boss, you were gone a while," he said as he sat up. "What happened?"

"Nothing." Motormaster eyed the bike. "Scoot back. I'm driving that."

"But it's my bike."

Motormaster glared at him. Wildrider scooted back. Feeling less angry at once, Motormaster patted him on the head and sat astride the bike. He revved the engine and twisted the throttle. The bike shot forward and Wildrider clutched at him.

_Not bad!_ Motormaster had almost forgotten what it was like to have speed and power at his command again, but skills and techniques were starting to come back to him. He steered the bike expertly, leaning into curves as he headed for home.

"Um, boss?" Wildrider called from behind him, the sound almost muffled beneath the roar of the bike's engine. "Where are you going?"

Where was he going? Where did Wildrider think he was going? "Back to the base, where else? The others are probably there already."

"You're heading for San Francisco Bay," Wildrider shouted. "And this ain't a hovercraft!"

_Oh._ _Right. _Motormaster slammed the brakes and wheeled the bike hard. Wildrider yelped, flinging both arms around Motormaster's midsection and hanging on tightly. Motormaster laughed as the bike slewed to a stop.

"Yeah," he said, glancing back over his shoulder. "If it was a hovercraft, it'd be that minibot… what's his name? Seasquirt?"

Wildrider stared at him. "Boss… are you OK?"

Why was that question always the first thing out of his team's vocalizers? "Sure," Motormaster said as he gunned the engine again and took off. "I'm great. Where's the forcefield on this thing?"

He flipped a switch and the headlight came on. No forcefield. Oh well, it wasn't that far to their small temporary base, and if he went faster it would take even less time. Motormaster accelerated, went the wrong way down a one-way street and clipped the side mirror off a parked car.

"Whoops!" he said.

The arms around him tightened and from behind a voice kept saying, "ThisisnotfunIwanttogetoff." Motormaster laughed again.

"Get off now?" he said. "You planning to walk home, Dead End? We'll be there in a second." He hoped there was some dinner left for him. For some reason, he was feeling hungry all over again.

It seemed to take no time at all to return to their base – he felt as though he was traveling at light speed. He steered the bike into the lobby, bounced it up the stairs to the elevator and got off just as the doors were opening. He wouldn't have been too surprised to find a permanent imprint of Dead End's face in the back of his shoulder, although he was mildly perplexed to realize it had been Wildrider who'd been clinging to him the whole time. That was strange – wasn't Wildrider the one who liked to have fun?

Oh well. It had been kind of nice to feel one of his team all but hugging him like that. He somehow crammed himself, the bike and Wildrider into the elevator. Wildrider kept wriggling, so Motormaster kept a firm grip on his collar with one hand and held on to the bike with the other, just in case the bike tried to squirm away too. When the elevator doors opened, he squeezed out and walked down the corridor, dangling bike and Wildrider on either side of him.

With both arms occupied he couldn't reach for his key, so he kicked the door until Breakdown opened it. He gaped at Motormaster for a moment before getting out of the way fast. Motormaster dropped the bike in the middle of the room and admired it while Wildrider slunk off and curled up in a corner of the couch.

"Are you all right?" Breakdown said.

"I'm fine, just hungry." Motormaster went to the kitchen and searched the fridge, finally coming up with a cardboard box half full of dumplings. Wildrider normally ate those with two sticks, so he tore open a paper packet of sticks and took his food into the living-room.

He made himself comfortable, poured sauce over the dumplings and tried to pick one up with the sticks. The dumpling slipped free, thumping back into the box. He tried again, with the same result.

Motormaster frowned. Everything seemed to be wiggling away from him tonight, and he didn't like it. He waited for a moment, holding perfectly still to lull the dumplings into a false sense of security.

Then, without warning, he struck. The stick speared a dumpling straight through its core and it stopped squirming at once. Motormaster chuckled and popped the dumpling into his mouth. He deactivated all the others in the same manner, then relaxed and slouched back in his chair.

The others remained where they had been when he had come in, watching him. Motormaster wondered why, then realized at once what it was. They knew he was still a bit hungry and were waiting to see what they could get him. That was so thoughtful.

"Dead End," he said, crooking his finger. "Go out and buy some more fuel." He fumbled in his pocket and came up with a thick stack of notes, which he tossed to Dead End. Most of them came loose and fluttered to the floor en route.

"Regular or premium?" Dead End said.

"Diesel." Motormaster smacked his lips.

He heard the front door click shut and there was a faint rustling sound as Drag Strip picked up the rest of the money. He had to bend over to do that, and as Motormaster watched him, he found himself no longer feeling hungry for some reason. Drag Strip froze, glancing at Motormaster out of the corner of his eye.

Motormaster smiled at him. But it wasn't Drag Strip he found himself thinking of; it was the way Wildrider had held on to him during their ride back to the base. That hadn't lasted nearly long enough, no it hadn't. He lurched to his feet and caught hold of Wildrider's arm, pulling him up from the couch.

"Boss?" Wildrider said. Motormaster set off, pulling Wildrider along with him. "Where are we go… oh." He had squirmed around just enough to see Motormaster's bedroom.

Motormaster slipped an arm under Wildrider's knees, picked him up bodily and deposited him on the bed. "You're not getting away from me again, dumpling," he said and kicked the door shut behind them.


	28. Information Superhighway

_Authors' note : Apologies to those of you who were hoping for Motormaster/Wildrider smut, but don't despair – at least one Stunticon gets lucky in this chapter._

_Chapter summary : __The boys enjoy some downtime, and Breakdown tracks down a lead._

_-anon_decepticon and QoS/mdperera_

_Thanks to Kookaburra 1701 for support and input, and to all our readers!

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_

**Chapter 28 – Information Superhighway**

Motormaster's door slammed shut. Breakdown looked at Drag Strip, who'd flopped down on the couch beside him to count his money. "You think Wildrider'll be all right?"

Drag Strip shrugged. "I'm just glad it wasn't me. I think I caught him checking out my aft."

Breakdown wasn't sure how to respond to that, so he looked around instead. They'd done some cleanup while Motormaster and Wildrider were gone – or rather, Dead End and Drag Strip had; he'd been excused due to his injury – and the base looked almost normal again.

His shoulder still hurt when he tried to move it, but it was clean and bandaged now. After replacing the cushions on the couch, Dead End had taken him into the washrack, leaving Drag Strip to put the rest of the living room back in order. The wound had turned out to be nothing more than a bad graze, but Dead End insisted on cleansing it meticulously, fussing over Breakdown until he was satisfied that nothing more could be done.

Motormaster and Wildrider had returned shortly after that, both behaving rather strangely. "Do you think they killed the loan shark?" he asked.

Drag Strip frowned. "Maybe," he said, eyeing the motorcycle Motormaster had left propped on its kickstand near the center of the room. "He did seem kind of…happy."

"Wildrider didn't," Breakdown said. "And he was the one who _wanted_ a motorcycle. I wonder what happened."

"I want to know what happened to you," Drag Strip replied, turning back to give Breakdown his full attention. "Dead End said something about humans attacking our base."

Breakdown nodded. "Yeah." He spent the next few minutes telling Drag Strip about the two men who'd broken into their apartment, and how he'd fought them off. "…and then Motormaster and Dead End came back, right before you and Wildrider. We thought you were them."

"Explains why we didn't get slagged for sneaking out," Drag Strip said. "He can't afford to damage us any more than we already are." He studied Breakdown for a moment. "So are you all right?"

"I guess," Breakdown replied with a cautious shrug of his undamaged shoulder. "My throat still hurts, and I leaked a lot."

"Well, you can 'face me if it'll make you feel any better," Drag Strip offered.

Breakdown blinked. "Uh…no thanks," he said. "Maybe later." _When your face doesn't look like something ran over it._

Drag Strip seemed about to respond when Dead End returned with an armful of grocery bags. "That was quick," Drag Strip said.

"There's a shop on the corner," Dead End replied. He looked around. "Where is he?"

"Bedroom," Breakdown replied, tilting his head towards Motormaster's door.

"And Wildrider?"

Breakdown glanced at Drag Strip, then they both looked back at Dead End.

"Ah," Dead End said. "Then I suppose the crisis is over for now." He carried the bags into the kitchen.

"You want to watch TV?" Drag Strip said.

Breakdown shook his head. "I think I'd rather go to bed." With the other Stunticons all within shouting distance, the apartment felt marginally safer. He got up carefully, checked on the computer, and then headed for his bedroom. His shirt was still soaking in the tub, so all he had to do was strip out of his jeans and stretch out on the mattress, but sleep proved elusive.

He was still awake when Dead End came in carrying a glass of water. "How do you feel?"

"Tired," he said. "But I can't sleep. My arm hurts too much."

"I asked at the shop if they had anything for pain," Dead End said. "They gave me this." He held up a small bottle.

Breakdown sat up, intrigued. "What is it?"

"Something called aspirin," Dead End replied, handing Breakdown the glass so he could study the bottle's label. "It says to take one or two tablets with water every four hours, but not to exceed twelve in twenty-four." He opened the container, peeled off a layer of foil, and shook two small white tablets out onto his palm. "Here."

Breakdown popped them into his mouth and began to chew – then grimaced. "Tastes awful," he said. "I think I'd rather sulfur."

"Suffer," Dead End corrected him. "Perhaps that's what the water is for." He nodded toward the glass Breakdown was holding.

Breakdown drained the glass. The water washed away the worst of the taste, but the sharp, acidic tang still clung to the inside of his mouth. "Is it supposed to start working right away?"

Dead End frowned, looking at the bottle again. "I'm not sure. Presumably the effects wear off after four hours, but it doesn't say anything about how long it takes to – oh." He blinked.

"What?" Breakdown said.

"_May cause stomach bleeding_," Dead End read. He stared at Breakdown's stomach for a long moment. "Evidently not a problem. Is it working yet?"

"I don't think so," he said.

Dead End's frown deepened, his brow furrowing. After a moment he set the bottle down beside the glass Breakdown had emptied and began to undress. Once he'd folded his clothes and put them away, he joined Breakdown on the bed, curling up at his side.

They lay together for a while, not speaking, waiting for the aspirin to take effect. Dead End stroked him absently the whole time, running his hands over Breakdown's torso as if he were checking him for dents. He seemed unaware he was even doing it, but it felt good to Breakdown all the same.

At length, Breakdown broke the silence. "What happened at the meeting place?"

"Nothing." Dead End slipped an arm around his waist, resting his head against Breakdown's good shoulder. "No one came. It was just a ruse to lure us out of the apartment."

"Oh," he said.

Dead End relaxed against him, his thumb moving in little circles against Breakdown's hip. He turned his head slightly, and Breakdown felt him tense. "There are marks on your neck," he said.

"Yeah," Breakdown replied softly. "I think he was trying to kill me."

Dead End leaned closer, and Breakdown felt his lips brush against his skin. "How did you get away?" he asked, his breath tickling his throat.

"Stabbed him with my knife," he said. "I had it in my pocket." He hoped Dead End wouldn't ask _why_ he'd had it.

"Hn." Dead End's fingers trailed over his stomach, tracing the ridges. "That was fortunate."

A faint flush of warmth crept over him, easing some of the tension from his body. The pain didn't seem as bad, now. "I think it's working," he said, his voice barely rising above a whisper. "My arm doesn't hurt as much."

"Good," Dead End said. His hand paused in its idle stroking, then dipped lower, his fingers following the line of hair that trailed down Breakdown's stomach.

Breakdown blinked in surprise. The fact that Dead End was touching him was hardly unusual, but something about the _way _he was doing it seemed strangely…deliberate.

_Is he..?_ It seemed almost impossible. Breakdown couldn't recall Dead End ever actively seeking out an interface, let alone initiating one. He usually went along with it when one of the others wanted to, but otherwise he just…didn't.

"Dead End?"

The hand paused. "Yes?"

"Do you wanna 'face me?"

Dead End turned his head, meeting his optics. "Do you want me to?"

"Yes," he replied automatically. Then he remembered his injuries. "But I don't know if I can. My arm –"

Dead End's lips twitched. "I think we'll manage."

_Hah. Take that, Trevor_, Breakdown thought smugly. Dead End's hand resumed its motion, sliding up to caress his naked chest. _He wants _me_, not you_. He smiled to himself as Dead End's lips traveled down the line of his jaw, brushing lightly over the bruises marring his throat.

Breakdown shivered, offlining his optics and giving in to the sensation. Dead End's mouth and hands slowly progressed from his neck to his chest, moving steadily downward. Each kiss and caress was bestowed with the same patience and deliberate attention Dead End gave to a good polish, and Breakdown knew by the time he was finished, there wouldn't be a single inch of his frame left untouched.

"You started without me!"

Breakdown's eyes popped open, and Dead End froze. Craning his neck, he spied Drag Strip standing in the doorway, regarding them both with a petulant scowl.

Dead End looked at Breakdown. "Were we supposed to include him?"

"Oh, ha ha," Drag Strip said, shrugging out of his blazer and pulling his shirt off over his head.

Dead End sighed and withdrew, retreating to his side of the bed. Breakdown tried to sit up, doing his best to push himself upright using only his good arm. Removing his underwear with a flourish, Drag Strip advanced toward the bed wearing nothing but a smile.

"Whoa, hold on," Breakdown said, holding up a hand. "_Damaged_, remember?"

Drag Strip paused with one knee on the bed, his smile faltering as his gaze shifted from Breakdown's face to his bandaged shoulder. "Oh. Right." He looked at Dead End, and the smile returned with a vengeance. "C'mere, shiny."

Dead End blinked. "I'm no longer shiny."

Drag Strip shrugged. "Whatever." He pounced on Dead End, pushing him back on the bed.

Dead End went down with a faint grunt of protest, disappearing beneath a tangle of tanned, muscular limbs. Breakdown watched as Drag Strip pushed himself up onto his elbows and began rubbing Dead End's shoulders, evidently forgetting in his enthusiasm that they were no longer a hot spot.

Dead End sighed and turned his head to meet Breakdown's gaze, his arms lying limp and unresisting at his sides.

Breakdown shrugged, stifling a grin. _It's Drag Strip_. _What can you do?_

Quirking a brow, Dead End turned his attention back to Drag Strip, bringing his hands up to rest on his shoulders and running them slowly down the length of his back. Drag Strip made an appreciative noise, taking a break from nipping at Dead End's neck and shoulders to say, "Mmm, that's _nice_. Do my feet next."

"Are they clean?" Dead End asked.

"Of course they are," Drag Strip replied indignantly, shifting above him. His voice was muffled against Dead End's throat. "Huh, you smell good. Which soap have you been using?"

"The one I hide from you," Dead End said, his fingers kneading the muscles of Drag Strip's back. Drag Strip groaned, grinding against him, too distracted by the sensation to take offense.

Breakdown grinned, enjoying their competitive banter almost as much as the show they were unwittingly providing him. A feeling of comfort and security settled over him like a warm blanket. _Everyone's getting along again_, he thought with satisfaction. Even Motormaster was in a good mood.

Dead End murmured something Breakdown's audials couldn't quite catch, and Drag Strip laughed, burying his face in his neck. Their hair mingled together, deep red and pale gold like the color of flames, and Breakdown suddenly found himself feeling an entirely different kind of warmth.

He smiled, knowing that if he wanted, he could slip between them like the filling in a sandwich, and be welcomed by eager hands and hungry mouths. He shivered, letting his hand drift downward. Maybe he would just lie here like this, touching himself, and see how long it took for them to notice…

"Breaks is here," Drag Strip said suddenly, sitting up. "You could both do me at once."

Dead End huffed, shaking his head – but then he caught the look in Breakdown's optic. "Turn around."

Pleased by his apparent cooperation, Drag Strip complied, rolling off of him and turning to face Breakdown. But when he reached for him, Dead End grabbed his hand, pulling it back across Drag Strip's chest and pinning it with his arm.

Drag Strip's eyes widened. "What are you doing? Let go!"

"No," Dead End replied, shifting his grip to Drag Strip's bicep without releasing his arm. The other hand wound around Drag Strip's waist as he leaned into him, pressing his cheek against the back of Drag Strip's neck. "Not just yet."

"Fragger," Drag Strip said, squirming against his hold. "I'll get you for this."

"Yes, you will." Dead End lowered his head, nipping at the taut flesh where Drag Strip's neck met his shoulder. Never one to give up without a fight, Drag Strip continued to struggle – until Dead End bit down hard, making him gasp and jerk in his grip.

"Behave," Dead End ordered mildly, soothing the spot with a gentle lick. He blew lightly on it, and Drag Strip shivered, his flesh breaking out into tiny bumps. He didn't look cold to Breakdown – in fact the room seemed a trifle warm, to him – but his struggles abruptly ceased.

"Better." Dead End's hand slid up Drag Strip's abdomen, his fingers spread wide, caressing his chest in slow, lazy circles. "Much better."

Drag Strip glanced at Breakdown, and Breakdown smiled, allowing his optics to rake over Drag Strip's frame, making sure he could see just how much he admired the view. Drag Strip grinned widely at that, preening under his gaze, and reached back to run his untrapped hand up the length of Dead End's thigh.

Dead End hummed in approval, gently mouthing his shoulder. He continued to stroke Drag Strip's chest in ever-widening circles, inching steadily lower with each circuit. Catching Dead End's optics over Drag Strip's shoulder, Breakdown ran a hand over his own chest, miming his caresses.

Drag Strip groaned as Dead End's fingers circled the shallow port in his stomach, arching in his grip. His head fell back against Dead End's shoulder, granting him access to his throat. "Tease," he gasped, his hips bucking upward..

"So impatient," Dead End replied, sounding calmer than he had any right to be. Drag Strip's breath had quickened, and Breakdown found himself breathing harder too, his skin flushing with warmth as he watched them. Then it occurred to him that unlike Drag Strip, both of _his_ hands were free, even if he only had one fully-functioning arm. Dead End's hand inched lower. Maybe he _would_ join them after all…

"Whoops, wrong room! Wait, how come you're all in here?" Wildrider said.

The three of them looked up. Wildrider was standing in the doorway, his face pale and bewildered. His hair was mussed, his clothes wadded into a bundle clutched tightly to his chest.

Dead End shrugged, releasing Drag Strip and settling back onto the bed. "No reason."

"Are you all right?" Breakdown asked. Wildrider looked more shaken than he'd ever seen him.

"I guess so," Wildrider replied, sounding uncharacteristically subdued. He dropped the armful of clothes and flopped down on the bed beside them. Drag Strip gave him a dirty look.

"Did he hurt you?" Dead End asked, his gaze scanning Wildrider's frame for injuries. As far as Breakdown could tell, there weren't any – Wildrider's skin appeared pale but unmarked.

Wildrider shook his head. "No, he – he threw me down on the bed, and then he started..._snuggling_ me. He wouldn't let go; he just kept _nuzzling_ me."

Breakdown frowned. "Why would he do that?"

"Are you sure he knew it was you?" Drag Strip said.

They all turned to stare at him. "Is that a joke?" Dead End asked. "Who else would he think he was?"

Drag Strip shrugged. "I don't know. Maybe that woman from the deli."

Wildrider made a face. "Ew. You think he does that with her?"

Breakdown and Dead End exchanged glances. Dead End looked as confused as he felt. "What woman from the deli?" he asked.

"Oh, Motormaster's 'facing some human," Drag Strip explained. "Pathetic, isn't it? Can you imagine letting a _human_ touch you like that? She's not even attractive!"

"Gross," Breakdown said, giving Dead End a pointed look. _See? I'm not the only one who thinks so._ Dead End's expression remained as impassive as always, but he wouldn't meet Breakdown's optics.

"Maybe that's why she gives him free coffee," Wildrider said. Dead End said nothing.

"I guess he can't afford to be too picky," Drag Strip said, settling back on the mattress and folding his arms behind his head. "But if it keeps him off us, she can _have_ him."

None of them felt inclined to argue that statement. Breakdown looked at Wildrider. "So then what happened?"

"He fell asleep and I snuck out." Wildrider shivered. "It was so creepy. I thought he was going to eat me."

Drag Strip made a derisive sound. "Because the alternative would be eating your cooking?"

Wildrider didn't even seem to notice the jibe. "No. But he kept calling me _dumpling_… and did you see what he did to those? He was shoveling them down his intake like nobody's business."

Breakdown decided to change the subject. "So did you get the loan shark?"

"No," Wildrider said, looking oddly pensive. "But Marce is dead. Motormaster killed him."

Drag Strip snorted. "Who cares? We'll be going home soon anyway, right Breaks?"

"Yeah, I guess," he said. "I'll be getting through to the base any day now. But what if they attack us again in the meantime?" He looked hopefully at Dead End, but Dead End seemed to have lost interest in the conversation.

"If they do, we'll just fight them off like you did," Drag Strip said with a shrug. "They're only humans."

Motormaster would probably say the same thing, but that answer didn't sit well with Breakdown. The humans who had attacked him had broken in only minutes after Drag Strip and Wildrider had left, which meant they'd been waiting outside. _Watching_ _them_. He suppressed a shudder.

"Can I sleep in here with you guys?" Wildrider asked.

"Sure, we were just about to doze off when you came in," Drag Strip said, his tone dripping with sarcasm.

"Oh, good." Wildrider wiggled in between Breakdown and Dead End, making himself comfortable. Within seconds he was snoring quietly.

Drag Strip blinked. "Hey, wait a second…" He looked at Dead End, but Dead End just yawned and rolled over onto his side, turning his back to them. "Breaks?"

Breakdown shook his head and snuggled closer to Wildrider, stifling a yawn of his own. "Damaged, remember?"

Drag Strip huffed in irritation. "I hate you all."

He still curled up to sleep with them anyway.

* * *

Breakdown woke early the next morning, feeling almost as exhausted as he'd been the night before. The pain in his shoulder had made his recharge fitful, and Wildrider had kicked him twice, muttering _who you callin' a punk? _in his sleep. He appeared to be resting quietly now though, having huddled closer to Drag Strip after Breakdown finally got fed up and shoved him away.

He got up carefully, stretching his stiff, sore limbs. He ached all over. Glancing at the others, he pulled on some clothes that smelled reasonably clean and retrieved the bottle of aspirin from the floor. Wildrider twitched in his sleep, but neither Dead End nor Drag Strip showed any signs of waking. He headed into the living room to check on the computer.

He was disappointed to discover that his program still hadn't gotten through to the base, but at least the apartment showed no signs of further intrusion. He double-checked the locks anyway, then leaned the motorcycle against the door to serve as a makeshift barricade.

Satisfied that their base was now as secure as he could make it, he settled into his chair in front of the computer and stared at the screen, thinking.

"Any change?" Dead End asked, startling him. He hadn't heard him come out of the bedroom.

"Not yet," he said. Dead End nodded and continued into the washrack. Breakdown rubbed his face wearily. It rasped.

_There has to be something._ His search for Ominsky had come up empty, but Breakdown wasn't beaten yet. Humans were obsessed with documentation; there _had_ to be a paper trail. He just had to find it.

Wildrider wandered out a few minutes later, making a sleepy beeline for the kitchen. Breakdown glanced up as he passed, and thought about food. Breakfast might help him think more clearly. Coffee sounded good, too. He got up and followed.

Dead End had bought a carton of eggs, and Wildrider enjoyed breaking things, so breakfast was soon underway. Breakdown put on a pot of coffee and glanced out the window. There were a few humans out on the sidewalk, but none appeared to be watching their building. When the coffee was ready, he filled a mug and returned to the computer.

_Maybe I'm going about this the wrong way,_ he thought as he chewed two more of the bitter aspirin and washed away the taste with several large gulps of coffee. Ominsky had hidden himself well, but what about the humans who worked for him? The human who'd tricked Wildrider and Drag Strip had been easy to find. The thugs who'd broken in yesterday hadn't given their names, but the ones who'd visited them as spies might have.

Breakdown hadn't caught their names himself – he'd ducked into the bedroom just to avoid them – but Drag Strip and Dead End had both talked to them. He glanced over at the washrack, listening to the steady hiss of running water. Knowing Dead End, he would probably be in there a while.

_I guess I'll ask Drag Strip when he wakes up,_ he thought, but to his surprise, the door to the washrack swung open and Drag Strip strolled out, a towel wrapped carelessly around his hips and a huge grin on his face.

"Morning, Breaks," Drag Strip said, noticing him. "How's the arm?"

Breakdown watched as he sauntered past him and flopped down on the couch. "Not too bad. How's your face?"

Drag Strip shrugged, stretching lazily. "Still not as handsome as it used to be, but it's getting better."

Recalling the question he'd wanted to ask, Breakdown decided to take advantage of Drag Strip's good mood. "Speaking of that…those humans you let into the apartment – did they tell you their names?"

Drag Strip frowned, possibly at the reminder of the cause of his injuries. "The woman's name was… Mandy Gray," he replied slowly. "And the man's was something like…Jetfire. No, Jeff. Jeff Snyder." His expression brightened. "Are you tracking them down?"

"Trying to," Breakdown said. "Those probably aren't their real names, though."

Drag Strip wilted a little, his eyes narrowing. "Well, if you find them, let me know. I owe them for trying to trick me."

_They did trick you,_ Breakdown thought. But he had the names. He turned back to the computer.

The names _Snyder_ and _Gray_ turned out to belong to a pair of human murderers, a man and a woman. At first Breakdown was elated to have found them so easily, but he soon learned those weren't the same two humans who'd come to spy on them. The man had been the one called Gray, the woman Snyder, and both had been executed more than fifty years before the Stunticons had even onlined.

He frowned at the screen. "Are you sure those are the right names?"

"Pretty sure," Drag Strip replied. "They said – "

"Who dented my omelette pan?" Wildrider's voice interrupted. Breakdown looked up as he emerged from the kitchen, the frying pan in one hand and a plateful of eggs in the other.

"Sorry, that was me," he said. "I hit one of the humans with it. Then it detected a bullet."

Wildrider blinked. "Cool!" He dropped into a fighting stance and began waving the pan around, sparring with an imaginary foe.

"Is that breakfast?" Drag Strip asked over Wildrider's exclamations of _WHOOSH!_ and _PWANG!_

"Yeah, I made eggs," Wildrider replied, ducking a swing from an invisible adversary. "Get 'em while they're hot!"

They took a break to eat breakfast, sitting down around the table. There weren't any clean dishes apart from the one Wildrider had used to serve the eggs, but none of them felt like washing any, so they each just grabbed a fork and dug in. Breakdown thought they tasted pretty good, although Drag Strip complained about all the bits of eggshell.

While they were eating, the water in the washracks shut off and Dead End came out to join them, arching an eyebrow at the sight of them all huddled over the same plate. Drag Strip grinned at him. "Work up an appetite, Deaders?"

Dead End ignored him. "Is there coffee?"

"In the kitchen," Breakdown told him. Dead End left to get a cup. When he came back Breakdown asked if he remembered the names of the human spies, but Dead End hadn't heard them.

That put him back to square one…until he remembered something else. "What happened to that envelope the pictures came in? The one with the note about the bullet holes?" The note was on the table beside the computer, but the envelope might have an address on it.

Wildrider thought for a moment. "I think I dropped it on the floor."

"Well it's not there now," Drag Strip said, twisting around in his seat to look. "I didn't see it when I was cleaning up, either."

They all looked at Dead End, who was leaning against the wall sipping his coffee. "What?" he said. "It was on the floor."

"You threw it away?" Breakdown said. "It might have had an address on it."

"It did have an address on it," Dead End replied. "_Our_ address. It was trash."

Breakdown huffed in frustration and got up from the table. Maybe the note itself would contain a clue. He picked it up, glanced at the computer to see if his program was still running, and then turned his attention back to the small square of paper.

It was white, and blank apart from the short, handwritten message. The top and bottom edges were rough, as if it had been torn out from a larger piece of paper, but the sides were clean and straight.

That struck him as odd. "Why would they cut out part of it, but not the rest?"

Dead End pushed off the wall and came over to look. "They didn't cut it," he said after a moment. "They tore off the top and bottom. There's something printed on the edge."

"_One-one-two_," Breakdown read. Something about those tiny numbers seemed familiar, as if he'd seen something like that before. He frowned, thinking hard, and the answer came to him.

"Do we still have that pad of paper we took from the motel?"

Dead End looked thoughtful for a moment, then nodded. He went into the kitchen and returned with the pad. Breakdown took it from him and laid it down on the desk.

The pad was slightly wider, but when he placed the note on top of it, it confirmed his suspicions. Where the parts of the note that had been torn off had been, the identifying information on the motel pad was clearly visible – the name of the motel above, its address below.

Breakdown recalled similar pads of paper at the other motel they'd stayed at. "It's from a motel. Or…hotel." He glanced at Dead End for confirmation, but Dead End just shrugged. He looked back at the note. The bottom part had been torn off at a slight angle, leaving the three numbers he'd noticed intact. "These numbers must be part of the address."

He returned to the computer and started searching. It turned out that every human address had a number at the end called a "zip code," and even though Breakdown only had the last three digits, there was only one match in their immediate area, in a nearby city called San Jose.

That seemed like a good place to start, so Breakdown began searching for hotels there. Once he'd narrowed down the list to the ones located within that zip code, hacking into their registries was easy.

After an hour, he was almost certain he'd found them.

There were a number of appearances of the names _Jeff_ and _Mandy_ in the hotel registries Breakdown searched, but there was only one instance where two humans with those names had booked rooms at the same time. The last names they'd used had changed – they'd registered as _Fernandez_ and _Beck_ – but that too turned out to be a clue – a second search revealed that those names belonged to yet another pair of human murderers.

Hot on the trail now, Breakdown skipped lunch to hack into the hotel's payment records to locate the address listed for the credit card they'd used to pay for their rooms. (They'd learned about credit cards when a telemarketer called a few weeks after their phone was hooked up; Motormaster had been extremely annoyed to learn that the plastic cards they'd taken from the humans in the Accord could have been used to buy a computer, but couldn't blame any of them because he himself had thrown them away. Later Drag Strip had tried to sign up for one of his own and been denied – something about not being able to prove he existed.)

To Breakdown's disappointment, the address associated with the card turned out to be a local business that assisted humans in making travel plans. It had no employees named Mandy or Jeff under any last name, and Breakdown couldn't find any reference to an owner or to Ominsky, either. It did have several addresses associated with it though, one of which turned out to be a warehouse on the outskirts of the city.

_Why would a place that deals with travel need a warehouse?_ Especially one in such a remote location. Warehouses were used for storing things. _Valuable _things.

_Like weapons, maybe._ Breakdown sat up a little straighter. Even if they couldn't find Ominsky's base, the loan shark might own other facilities, like a storage depot that might be less heavily guarded. Best of all, it would be taking the war to the enemy, rather than holing up in their base and waiting for the next attack. Breakdown grinned.

"Hey guys! I have an idea…"


	29. Road Warriors

_Author's note : Sorry about the delay, everyone. This site was acting up. _

_Chapter summary : __The Stunticons set out for revenge, but not all goes as planned._

– _anon_decepticon and QoS/mdperera_

_Thanks also to Kookaburra 1701 for her support and input!

* * *

_

**Chapter 29 : Road Warriors**

Drag Strip's pulse thudded in his ears.

It felt good to be on a mission again, especially one where he would be fighting – and, of course, winning. His former frame had been a racecar, but racing was only a different kind of competition, and he had been created as a warrior.

Granted, he usually looked better while in combat, but he couldn't risk getting the Perfect Blazer torn or stained. He smoothed out a crease in the denim jacket he had put on instead. The only thing that bothered him was that he still didn't have a weapon. He'd once made the mistake of asking Wildrider to buy him some of the incapacitating aerosol spray the woman who worked in the deli had tried to use on him. Wildrider had come home with a can of air freshener.

Still, he could probably find one. The rest of the team all had weapons or wheels they had taken from humans who had attacked them. Drag Strip just hated to be the last one in that regard, the one left out.

The cab drove on, although he could tell the driver was nervous. Motormaster wasn't exactly hiding the shotgun at his side, and Breakdown kept tapping his fingers against the door handle in a nervous habit. Behind them and constantly visible in the rear-view mirror was the glowing dot of the headlight on Wildrider's motorbike.

The highway unrolled beneath the cab's wheels as the city began to fall behind them. Even the gaudy neon signs grew fewer and farther apart, and the weak glow of the streetlights only made the night seem darker in comparison.

"Take the next exit," Motormaster said.

The cab driver glanced at Motormaster out of the corner of his eye, but did as he was told, slewing the wheel. Motormaster had all the directions, but gave them out one by one, and Drag Strip knew that anything other than immediate obedience would have resulted in him flinging the driver out onto the highway and steering the cab himself. The driver seemed to have realized that too, because he obeyed with alacrity.

Motormaster halted the cab when they were twenty yards from the warehouse, and the driver took off at speed. Wildrider slammed on the brakes and slewed to a halt in front of them.

For a moment there was no sound except for the purr of the RC30's engine. Wildrider twisted his hands back and forth on the bike's handles, but Motormaster didn't seem to notice the fidgeting. He only looked around with an evaluating predator's gaze that slowly settled on the warehouse.

To Drag Strip, it was nothing more than a dark block in the distance, small and indistinct. None of the windows were even lit. Motormaster rested the barrel of the shotgun on his shoulder.

"We're going in," he said. "As quiet as we can, at first." He turned to Wildrider. "You. Keep your distance, got it? Drive in _only_ if you hear a fight in progress."

"Sure, boss," Wildrider said, then leaned close to Drag Strip and spoke in a stage whisper. "Start a fight real quick, okay?"

Drag Strip had only a split-second's warning as Motormaster's grip turned the shotgun's stock into a pivot. Then the rest of the weapon swung in an arc so fast that it was a blur. Drag Strip jerked back, but Wildrider didn't have his reflexes. The barrel hissed down bare inches from his face. Drag Strip wasn't sure whether Motormaster had aimed to miss or not, but Wildrider didn't look as though he wanted to find out.

Without taking any further notice of him, Motormaster shouldered the gun again and strode away. The other Stunticons fell in, and as they covered the distance to the warehouse Drag Strip realized that he and Dead End had taken up their usual flanking positions, with Breakdown in front. He had felt pretty good about coaxing an interface out of Dead End in the 'rack that morning, but having the team almost complete and heading out on a mission felt even better.

As they drew closer, he saw a couple of cars, an SUV and another motorbike parked to one side of the warehouse. Drag Strip glanced at the row of windows on what looked like the uppermost floor, but none of them were lit. The place had a closed, deserted look – apart from the vehicles parked outside.

And behind a fence, he realized, although that didn't stop them for long. The fence was ten feet tall, but Motormaster simply stood beside it and Dead End cupped his hands. Drag Strip stepped in them and used the lift to get a foot on Motormaster's shoulder, giving him enough height to grab the top of the fence. Sometimes there were advantages to being the lightest of the team.

A door creaked open. The rest of the Stunticons dropped at once, and Drag Strip froze. He felt horribly exposed, and all he could think was that it was over before it had even begun. But a moment later he saw two humans emerge from the front of the warehouse, trailing cigarette smoke that he could smell even from that distance. They didn't look back as they retrieved their vehicles – a car and the motorbike – and after they drove away Motormaster got to his feet again.

"Should we wait until more of them leave?" Breakdown said.

Even in the near-darkness, Drag Strip saw Motormaster's face twist into a scowl. He felt impatient too. He certainly couldn't wait where he was, perched ten feet off the ground and all but straddling a wire fence. It was distinctly uncomfortable.

"If you want to stay here 'cause you're damaged, that's fine," he said. "The rest of us can go in without you."

Breakdown didn't say anything more, but he needed Dead End's help to surmount the fence, even with Drag Strip giving him a hand from above. Drag Strip got both of them down on the other side, then caught the shotgun when it was tossed up to him. Motormaster clambered up as well, the fence swaying and distorting a little beneath his weight, and thudded down.

"Where they came from," he said softly, and the four of them moved to the wide double door at the front of the warehouse. Drag Strip and Breakdown took up positions on either side of it. Dead End drew his gun and fired twice at the handles of the doors.

Drag Strip heard a soft _phut_-_phut_. Wood splintered and metal crunched, but there was no other sound. Motormaster took hold of the ruined handles and yanked on them. When the doors shuddered but didn't open completely, he simply backed up and rammed one shoulder against them. The doors flew open.

Motormaster flung himself to one side and took the shotgun from Drag Strip. The other Stunticons moved away from the doors with speed as well, but no one seemed eager to plunge into the dimness of the warehouse. Drag Strip wished he had brought a flashlight. He would definitely have been the first in that case.

"It's too quiet," Breakdown whispered.

"Wow," Drag Strip said. "I guess that's why you're the scout, Breaks – nothing gets past you."

Breakdown actually hit him – or tried to, since he had to use his uninjured arm. Drag Strip dodged just in time, and Motormaster's snarl made it clear that any further fisticuffs would be punished. "Don't you get it?" Breakdown said. "We shot our way in, but there's no alarm system. Whoever owns this place doesn't want any attention drawn to it."

Motormaster shouldered the shotgun. "Enough yapping. Fan out, keep each other in sight and find out what the frag is being stored here. There's plenty of slag around. I want to know what it is."

Drag Strip couldn't help agreeing that there was a lot of slag. He made his way cautiously past a few stacks of crates so tall that there was no way to see what might be inside them, and it was too dark to read anything that might have been stencilled on their sides. On either side of him, footsteps scuffed softly on the bare floor, but he heard nothing else other than his own breathing. And it was dark in the warehouse – the only light seemed to come from a skylight above, hardly ade—

His hip collided with something and he stopped, breath hissing between his teeth more in worry than pain. The last thing he needed was a mountain of crates collapsing on his head. But when he reached out he felt cloth covering a smooth expanse. Curiously, he tugged at the cloth and it slid away. Drag Strip ran his hands over a flat rectangular surface, then felt the knobbly carved legs beneath.

"A table?" he said aloud.

"I found an armchair," Dead End said from nearby. Drag Strip didn't need to look in that direction to know that Dead End would be sitting in it.

Motormaster approached from behind them, his steps ominously slow and deliberate. "These crates are full of human trash," he said. "Breakdown! What's this all about?"

"Yeah." Drag Strip had expected to infiltrate a secret human base, not a place of storage. "I thought there'd at least be something valuable here."

Breakdown poked his head around the side of a stack of boxes. "I don't know," he said. "Maybe these are valuable. Maybe they're antic furniture."

Motormaster glowered at him. "And what the frag are we supposed to with 'em? Carry 'em out on our backs?"

Before Breakdown could answer, a door swung open close to them. As they all stiffened, a ray of light – bright as a headlamp in the near-darkness – appeared, sweeping slowly from side to side. The furniture and crates blocked them from sight, but they wouldn't do so for long – Drag Strip could tell from the brisk footsteps coming their way.

"Cover." The single whispered word from Motormaster was enough; Drag Strip slid beneath the table and Dead End grabbed the shotgun tossed to him before he ducked behind what looked like a massive bookcase. Breakdown had vanished so quickly that Drag Strip couldn't see where he had gone. Motormaster snatched up the cloth which had covered the table and replaced it, but made no attempt to hide as the feet of two humans – all Drag Strip could see from beneath the table – came into sight.

They stopped at once when they saw Motormaster. Drag Strip tensed. If they had guns…

"You here for the match?" one of them said.

_What match?_ Drag Strip wondered, but Motormaster only said, "Yeah." From the guarded tone of his voice, it was clear he didn't know what they were talking about either.

"Well, you're too late!" The human sounded irritated. "It's already fini—"

"Wait a sec," the other human said. The beam of the flashlight moved a little, vertically, as though scoping Motormaster out, and Drag Strip realized the two humans were standing a good six or seven feet away from him. "How'd you get in?"

"Door was open."

"Huh. Shouldn't have been." That was the first human, and as he started to walk past Motormaster the pale edge of the light's glow moved as well. Which meant the second one, the one still standing, was the one with the gun. Drag Strip couldn't see much, but he knew that Motormaster would never have just remained there if he hadn't had a weapon trained on him.

_What do I do now?_ The human moved past Motormaster, along the length of the table, clearly going to check on the warehouse's perimeter defenses. _If only we still had internal comms!_ Drag Strip felt wound tighter than a spring. He didn't have orders, didn't have anything except his superior skills and intelligence… and the element of surprise.

That settled it. He flung an arm out and his fingers closed around the human's ankle. He yanked hard sideways.

The human fell with a shout. The flashlight struck the floor and spun away, but as he scrambled out from under the table Drag Strip thought he heard another heavy thud nearby. _Motormaster can look after himself_, he thought as he kicked the prone human. His boot connected, but the human managed to roll away from him and scramble up – straight into Motormaster's waiting arms.

Drag Strip made a dive for the flashlight. Even though its glass was cracked, it still seemed to be functional, and he shone the beam in the human's face as he had seen people do on TV. Dead End, he saw, had crept up behind the other human and struck while the man's attention had been on Motormaster, and was now searching the unconscious human's pockets, with pauses every now and then to wipe his fingers clean.

Both of the humans wore the same uniforms – dark grey and black jackets with the word SECURITY in bright yellow on the front. Drag Strip's lip curled. _More like insecurity, considering their performance,_ he thought.

Motormaster had pinned the human's arms behind his back and seemed to be twisting them in new and unusual angles, judging from the expression on the human's face. Drag Strip grinned. It was actually kind of fun to watch Motormaster do that to someone who wasn't part of their team, especially a human on the opposing side. Drag Strip had never before seen the security guard, but it didn't matter – he had been punished for what Ominsky's operatives had done, so he was prepared to savor every drop of revenge.

"Start talking." Motormaster's voice was a low hiss beside the human's ear, eliciting a flinch.

"Wh—what do you want to know?"

Motormaster gave a sharp jerk of his head and Breakdown came up from behind so that the human couldn't see him. "Doesn't look as though anyone heard," he said quietly. "All right, you. This place isn't just a warehouse, is it?"

"No…" The human's eyes swiveled as if trying to see as much as possible, and Drag Strip could tell he was wondering who they were, and how much they knew.

Breakdown's relief was just as evident. "So where's the auction?"

"The what?"

"He means action," Dead End said, also from behind.

The small lump in the human's throat bobbed as he swallowed. "Uh… downstairs. Where we came from."

"Is Ominsky there?" Motormaster said softly.

The human shook his head. "He don't pick up the cash… he sends one of his people to do it…"

_Cash? _Drag Strip liked the sound of that. "How much cash?"

"Never mind that," Motormaster said. "How many more sacks of roadkill are down there?"

The human seemed to take a moment to process that. "S-six, seven maybe."

Motormaster smiled, and although the light gleamed off the angle of his jaw, it didn't seem to reflect off his eyes at all. He tilted his head at Dead End in a _go-ahead_ gesture, and Dead End's hand came up, holding the gun with the attachment to its barrel – the one which muffled the report.

The human could not have seen any of that, but the sudden silence was enough. "Please," he began. "Please, I won't say anything, just let me—"

Dead End fired at point-blank range. Drag Strip jerked back just in time to avoid his jacket being splattered, and even then he didn't think his clothes had escaped completely. He brushed ineffectually at them with one hand, annoyed at the stains but relieved that he hadn't worn the Perfect Blazer. Motormaster let the human's body drop and crossed the distance to the door the human had indicated. There was a sign on it.

EMERGENCY EXIT ONLY

Do Not Open - Alarm Will Sound

A sneer twisting his mouth, Motormaster grasped the handle and yanked the door open. No alarm sounded. A staircase leading down twisted to the left and no one was visible from their vantage point, but Drag Strip could see that the basement below was lit, pungent with cigarette smoke and a faint odor of stale food. He heard voices talking, and someone laughed loudly as Motormaster started down the stairs.

Drag Strip followed fast. He was intrigued by the contrast between the basement and the dark, quiet, motionless – _dull!_ – façade of the warehouse, and whatever was downstairs appealed to him more than wandering about through a maze of furniture. He descended with such speed that he nearly bumped into Motormaster, who hissed a warning and elbowed him in the ribs, hard. Drag Strip barely felt it as he stared over the banister at the room below.

It was spacious – not enough to have accommodated Motormaster in alt-mode, but far larger than their living-room – and a wide black square had been painted on the bare floor. The paint and the floor itself were scuffed and filthy, with dried dark stains here and there. A human almost as large as Motormaster sat on a stool to one side of it, swigging from a beer bottle, but Drag Strip's attention was drawn to two other humans beyond the black square.

They were making neat piles of banknotes – one small and the other stacked high. When Motormaster stopped in his tracks, Drag Strip knew he had seen it too. The larger wad of notes was wrapped with a rubber band, and as he watched one of the humans took it with him and disappeared down a narrow corridor.

Drag Strip felt disappointed, but the sight had evidently galvanized Motormaster to action. He took the remaining stairs two at a time, and everyone in the room below froze, staring at him.

_Not that the big lump of slag would be out of place among that lot,_ Drag Strip thought. Most of the eight humans had muscles bulging out of their T-shirts or frayed jeans, and one had a tattoo of a snake biting his bicep. Drag Strip had no idea what the point of that was. Did the human think that something so obviously fake made him look intimidating?

"Who the hell are you?" another human demanded. He was sitting at a table scattered with cards, and around it other humans were already on their feet. Smoke coiled up from an ashtray in the center of the table as if from the barrel of a gun.

Motormaster's own gun, Drag Strip realized, was nowhere in evidence. He heard the door above swing shut but didn't glance upward; if he did that, the humans would know someone else was on the stairs, pressed close against the door. He put a hand on the banister and sauntered downstairs as well.

"We're here for the match," Motormaster said casually. He pulled his shirt off over his head, exposing the white T-shirt he wore beneath. _Showoff,_ Drag Strip thought. _Well, go ahead – show the humans you can sweat along with the best of them._

"The match?" The human who had been gulping his beer set down the half-empty bottle and dragged a large hand across the back of his mouth. "Who's fightin'? You or the pretty-boy?"

"Pretty boy?" Drag Strip said. He had been very pretty in alt-mode and he was no less so now, but somehow he didn't think it had been meant as a compliment. The rest of the humans laughed.

All except one, the human who had reemerged from the corridor and stood watching them, arms folded. He no longer seemed to have the money he had counted out, but what bothered Drag Strip more was his cold perusal of them both.

"I've never seen either of you here before," he said. "And you're way too late for the match. Just who are you?"

"Someone with money to bet," Motormaster said, and reached slowly into his back pocket. Drag Strip didn't miss how the other humans tensed, watching the movement, and one or two seemed to be reaching for concealed weapons. But Motormaster, instead of even bringing up his hand to show them his money, flicked his wrist sharply sideways.

A burst of banknotes flew through the air, scattering over the black square, and all the humans glanced at them. Instantly Dead End threw the shotgun down – and Drag Strip had to duck to avoid it slamming into his head. Motormaster snatched it out of the air and had it in position before the humans could do more than freeze in shock.

"Don't any of you slaggers move. And keep your hands up, where I can see 'em." The shotgun's range wasn't wide enough to cover all the humans, but Motormaster was hardly alone. Not only was Drag Strip more than sufficient backup – cool and poised and competent as always – but Dead End and Breakdown joined them in the next moment. The humans stayed motionless except for raising their hands, but two of them glanced at the corridor.

Drag Strip was beginning to be intrigued about that. Could all the money the humans had clearly bet on previous matches be stored just a few yards away? Motormaster had come to his senses that morning and demanded that Drag Strip return the cash he had thrown at Dead End the night before, and Drag Strip had had no choice but to surrender it. He liked the idea of getting more to take its place – money Motormaster wouldn't know about, and therefore wouldn't be able to steal.

But for the time being, there were still eight humans to deal with. Breakdown and Dead End both had guns trained on them, though, in addition to Motormaster's shotgun, and the humans had their hands up, so Drag Strip doubted it would take long. He hoped Motormaster would hurry up and finish them off quickly.

"You lot at the table," Motormaster said. "Move towards the black square."

They began a reluctant shuffle, and Drag Strip knew why – they could tell Motormaster was simply herding them together, probably to deactivate them en masse. One of them refused to move until Dead End aimed a desultory shot at him; after that all the humans gathered more or less together.

"What do they do down here?" Breakdown said curiously.

"Fight, obviously." Drag Strip tilted his chin in the direction of the square. "I'm guessing that's their magnificent arena."

"Ugh." Dead End wrinkled his nose. "I wouldn't fight here. The floor is filthy."

"Shut the frag up." Motormaster never looked away from the humans, and his voice was even less pleasant when he addressed them.

"Where's Ominsky?" he said.

The humans exchanged nervous glances, and finally one of them, from the back of the small crowd, spoke up, his voice so faint and halting that Drag Strip had to strain to catch the words. "He's not here… but I can show you where his office is."

"Get out here, then," Motormaster said irritably, and the other humans moved aside. The one who had spoken took two steps forward and stumbled, going to his knees, hands coming down to catch himself.

With a cat-quick movement he drew a small gun from inside his boot and fired.

Everything seemed to happen at once then. Motormaster jerked reflexively to one side and fired back at the same time. It ruined his aim, but with a shotgun he hardly needed a targeting lock – the mass of humans was too close.

Four of them ate the brunt of the blast, but the others leaped aside in time. One of them even snatched up the half-full beer bottle and flung it. Drag Strip threw himself forward, well below the range of either gunfire or makeshift missiles, and slammed bodily into one of the humans who seemed to be trying to escape. The human struck the floor, and since the flashlight was still in Drag Strip's hand, he shoved it deep into the human's open mouth.

That broke the flashlight for good. To be on the safe side, though, Drag Strip hit the human between the eyes with it, wincing as the vibrations of the impact raced up his arm.

He struggled to his feet, the useless flashlight still in his hand, and looked around. Motormaster had expended the shotgun's ammunition and was now using the weapon as a club against two humans – one had another bottle, this one broken, and the other was trying to batter Motormaster down with a stool. Breakdown fired on another human who was scrambling up the stairs. The human staggered, crumpled and fell over the banister. Dead End was clutching one arm, but continued to fire selectively with the other and seemed undamaged otherwise.

Drag Strip turned and strode into the quiet dark corridor.

Except it became a little less quiet as he neared its end – a closed door. He thought he heard soft furtive movements behind the door. Slag, he still didn't have a gun. But he could hardly go back for one now, especially if whoever was there might use the opportunity to escape. _Is Ominsky's office behind that door?_ Drag Strip would have liked it to be Ominsky, but at that moment he would have settled for anyone.

He flung the door open, slid sideways into the room to put his back to the wall, and then saw who was inside. The human had been half-bent over a desk, stuffing papers into a battered case, but now she froze, staring at him. Drag Strip felt his mouth drop open.

It was the woman who had come to their apartment – Mandy whoever – except now she didn't look one-tenth as fresh-faced or shy. Her hair was black now, and her low-cut blouse even more revealing thanks to her posture, though she straightened up slowly.

"Don't move," Drag Strip said at once. "I'm not alone here."

Mandy glanced at the door, then back at him. "I guess you'll want to call for help before you deal with me."

That wasn't the impression Drag Strip had intended to convey. "Step away from the desk," he said, and when Mandy obeyed, he strode forward. Establishing his command of the newly acquired territory, he decided, plus it gave him an opportunity to see what she had been doing.

The desk itself was unremarkable – nothing was on it except for a few papers, Mandy's briefcase and a pot containing a few pens and a letter-opener, all of which Drag Strip took in with one swift glance. Really, if he hadn't been such a superb warrior and racer, he might have replaced Breakdown as the team's scout. He felt sure he could see some neatly bound stacks of banknotes beneath the papers Mandy had been stuffing into the briefcase as well, and that made him smile.

He glanced back and saw at once that something was different. Mandy now had her hands behind her back, in a pose that might have looked subservient if he hadn't known she was sneakier than Mirage and a bigger liar than Starscream. "Put your hands up," he said sharply.

She brought her hands up. There was a gun in the right one.

Drag Strip acted through sheer reflex. He flung the flashlight and threw himself aside just as she fired. Even then he barely escaped. Heat scorched along his left cheek, and for a moment all he could think was, _Did she just shoot me in the face? _That would ruin his good looks.

Then he and Mandy's gun struck the floor at once. She had dropped it as the flashlight struck her hand, but before either of them could reach the weapon, it slid underneath the large desk. Mandy dropped to her knees and stuck a hand beneath the desk, groping for the gun, but the sides of the desk were less than an inch off the floor.

Drag Strip was on his feet at once, hardly feeling any injury in the surge of battle rage that welled up in him. Mandy looked up at him, eyes wide.

"Please don't hurt me," she whispered. She clasped her hands just beneath her breasts and tried to move back, though since the desk was behind her, she only ended up sitting on the floor. Drag Strip grinned and advanced. "Please—"

He reached down, intending to grab her arm and haul her to her feet, then drag her back for Motormaster to question. _Or do something else to._

And her leg, bent before her, straightened like an energy-whip snapping out. Her heel slammed into Drag Strip's knee.

Pain drove up Drag Strip's leg. He staggered back a pace and just managed to regain his balance. Mandy jumped up, slammed her briefcase shut and flipped the locks closed.

Drag Strip aimed a punch at her. Mandy spun to face him and threw up a forearm, blocking the blow. Her other arm swung the briefcase at his head.

It was a glancing strike at best – the briefcase was unwieldy and had never been designed for use as a weapon – but the corner of the case was metal and actually hurt when it clipped his ear. His anger turned to a fury so great it nearly blinded him. No human had ever gotten the better of him like that.

He feinted with his right hand – making her duck to avoid him – and threw a left hook with all his strength behind it. Mandy caught his fist and yanked it towards her. Drag Strip's damaged knee failed him and he jolted forward. Before he could recover, Mandy released him, pivoted and kicked him hard in the stomach.

The force of the kick sent him reeling backward, and his shoulders struck a shelf on the wall. Packets of cigarettes rained down. Almost doubled-up and struggling to breathe, he pushed away from the wall just as Mandy gripped the briefcase's handle with both hands and swung it again. That time it hit the side of Drag Strip's head. He dropped to his knees and the inside of his skull rang as if his head had been a bell.

_She's too good_, he thought in a daze. Blood trickled through his hair. _I'm going to lo—_

Mandy kicked him again and Drag Strip crumpled to the floor. He tried to get an arm up over his face, but moving anything hurt too much and he heard Mandy move away. Something tapped quickly and he blinked his vision clear. He kept the rest of his frame motionless, realizing that if she knew he was still alive, she would probably continue slagging him.

Mandy had tucked the receiver of a phone between her ear and shoulder, turning so she could watch the door. "I'm at the club," she said. "We've just been hit. Send some backup."

Drag Strip's fuel pump slammed in his chest. If one human had been enough to subdue him, he didn't want to see what the backup would do. _Get up,_ he thought frantically, _move, do something!_ He tried to lever himself up on one trembling elbow, but the only effect was that he simply thudded back to the floor.

Mandy shot him a look and dropped out of sight. Startled, Drag Strip wondered what she was doing. Then the desk shuddered, shifting back a few inches, and he realized she was trying to retrieve her gun.

And he hadn't even shouted – not for help, because he hadn't thought he needed any, but to warn the other Stunticons. He tried to scream now, but he could barely breathe.

_I'm going to die._


	30. Brace for Impact

_Chapter summary: Motormaster ends the war, and pays a price for it. _

– _anon_decepticon and QoS/mdperera_

_Thanks also to Kookaburra 1701 for her support and input, and to all our readers!_

* * *

**Chapter 30 : Brace for Impact**

Motormaster reloaded his shotgun, although there were no longer any enemies alive in the basement. "Breakdown, start searching the place." Dead End had been damaged, but they would be out of there soon and he could be patched up once they were back at the base. "Drag Strip, pick up that money-"

He stopped, realizing that Drag Strip had disappeared.

"He went that way," Breakdown said, pointing at a corridor in the far wall.

_Trying to grab whatever he can for himself_, Motormaster knew at once. He bent and scooped up the money he'd thrown as a distraction, then turned to Breakdown, who had finished taking the wallets and keys from the bodies on the floor and was now fumbling around behind the makeshift bar. "What'd you find?"

Breakdown straightened up, clutching a bottle of liquor. As he opened his mouth to reply, a muffled gunshot echoed down the corridor.

Motormaster froze. Drag Strip hadn't been carrying a gun.

He glanced at Dead End and then at the door at the head of the stairs. Dead End nodded. Breakdown slipped silently to Motormaster's side.

Shotgun in hand, Motormaster paced down the corridor, even though he would have preferred to barrel down it at full speed in a hammering charge, taking out everything in his path. He couldn't risk running into a trap. Drag Strip had been away from the rest of them for far too long.

The corridor ended in a closed door. Breakdown listened at it, then straightened up and tilted his head towards the door. Motormaster knew what that meant – someone was inside the room.

He drove the butt of the shotgun against the lock as hard as he could. The door flew open as he flipped the shotgun around, the butt socking against his shoulder as his finger tightened on the trigger. A woman spun around to face him, the briefcase she'd been holding falling to the floor with a heavy thud.

Motormaster heard Breakdown's sharp indrawn breath, but he had seen Drag Strip as well – lying against the wall and very still. The blood on his hair looked almost black in the poor light.

"He's not dead," the woman said.

Only that stopped him from killing her instantly. Motormaster strode forward, reaching out without looking to snag Breakdown's gun as Breakdown darted out from behind him to see to Drag Strip. The shotgun was useless at close quarters, and the quarters from which he planned to interrogate this woman were extremely close. He knew immediately that she had to be one of Ominsky's elite troops – not only was it unlikely that she was there for the match, she had managed to dispatch one of _his_ troops. He closed the distance between them, making her gasp as he forced her back against the desk and shoved the barrel of the gun against her forehead.

"Where's Ominsky?" he said.

"Please, you're hurting me." Her voice was a whimper.

"Good," he replied through clenched teeth. "Start talking or it'll get worse."

She cringed and tried to lean back away from the gun, her arms spread wide on the desk behind her. "Please, I'll tell you, just please let me up—"

It happened so fast Motormaster barely saw the movement. Her hand closed around something which gleamed dully and a second later she plunged it low into the left side of his chest.

Sharp, agonizing heat drove through Motormaster's whole frame, and his finger clamped down on the trigger by reflex. The gun fired at point-blank range a second before he staggered back. Half-folded over around the pain, he watched as the woman's body slid slowly to the floor.

"Ohhh," Drag Strip groaned, struggling to rise. Breakdown seemed to be trying to help him up while staring wide-eyed at Motormaster the entire time.

Somehow seeing his worst subordinate in such a pathetic state helped. Motormaster took some comfort in knowing that at least he had dispatched an enemy who seemed to have flattened Drag Strip, not that there should have been any doubt about that. He gritted his teeth and forced himself to straighten up, then looked down to assess the damage.

An ornamental handle jutted from the side of his body. A blade that wouldn't have scratched the paint of his old frame was now buried deep in his human flesh.

Motormaster felt his lip curling – in anger and contempt as much as pain. He closed his fist around the handle and yanked the small weapon out.

The sharp flare of pain was much worse this time, and he was just as unprepared for it. Breath hissed out between his teeth and he clamped his free hand around the leaking wound. When he breathed in again, it felt as though there was a small fire in his side; the air rasping into him was just feeding the flames.

But with both Breakdown and Drag Strip staring at him, there was no way he could show any weakness. He flung the weapon away.

"Well, what are you two waiting for?" he said.

"Briefcase." Drag Strip gestured at the floor with the arm that wasn't draped over Breakdown's shoulders. "And she… she called for reinforcements."

If the woman hadn't already been dead, Motormaster would have killed her. As it was, he could barely stoop to pick up the briefcase, and by the time he did, Breakdown and Drag Strip were halfway down the corridor. He followed them, aware that his self-repair systems weren't sealing over the leak in his side and not caring. The threat of reinforcements was more urgent.

No one intercepted them as Drag Strip made a laborious journey up the steps, although Motormaster would have happily thrown him up them if it got them out of there before Ominsky's reinforcements arrived. But then Breakdown suggested they create a diversion – and gestured at the bottles of liquor lining the shelves. Still holding his damaged side, Motormaster swung the shotgun one-handed and smashed the bottles, then found a discarded lighter.

He splashed his way through spilled liquid and broken glass, then gripped the banister with one hand to haul himself up the stairs, glad all the humans were dead so they couldn't see his moment of weakness. Why did the fragging wound in his side continue to leak worse than Breakdown's fuel pump? How much longer would his self-repair systems take to seal it already? He thought of finding rags to stuff into it, but decided to do it after they were back at the base.

At the top of the stairs, he flicked the lighter on. When a flame appeared, he tossed it down and swung the door shut behind him.

Sweat had broken out on his skin as though he had been trapped in the basement himself, but he felt strangely cold as he stumbled through the warehouse. Ahead of him he could barely see the half-crouched shapes of his team on either side of the open door – silhouetted by the weak light from outside.

Inside, of course, he could barely see. His knee thudded against what felt like a stone slab of furniture and he hissed out through his teeth. Where the frag was Wildrider? Was the basement so deep that he hadn't heard any of the shots? Or was he already engaging the reinforcements? The other Stunticons all but scurried out as he drew nearer, but they stopped a few feet away from the doors as though they were waiting for him. Motormaster plodded on through the warehouse, his fuel pump thudding so loudly that he didn't hear the approaching car until he was outside as well.

He swung the shotgun up, but his injury slowed him enough that the car screeched to a halt eight feet away just as the butt thudded into place against his shoulder. The headlights' glare nearly blinded Motormaster as the car's doors were flung open, but as he blinked his vision clear he realized a human was crouched behind each door, their guns trained on him.

He forgot about the pain in his side for a moment. The shotgun's blast wouldn't take them all out, and the survivors would shoot back. And they might not all be aiming at him.

"Drop the gun!" one of them shouted at him.

Motormaster swallowed through a throat that felt lined with sandpaper. Without taking his finger off the shotgun's trigger, he glanced around, trying to make the movement unobtrusive. Wildrider was nowhere in sight.

Another of the humans laughed. "If ya looking for help, don't bother. Ain't nobody around for miles. We cleared the area."

A motorcycle's engine growled into life and revved hard – except the sound seemed to come from somewhere above him. Two of the humans glanced up, startled… and Motormaster felt himself grin.

"You cleared the ground," he said, "but did you check the sky?"

He turned his head and looked up just in time to see the motorcycle race toward the edge of the warehouse's roof. Wildrider leaped off a second before it cleared the edge. The bike soared off in a smooth arc and came down on the car in front of them.

The Stunticons acted in unison and through sheer reflex, throwing themselves flat as the humans opened fire. But the bike's impact sent their shots wide, and Motormaster landed on his uninjured side. He fired the shotgun once – at the bike's gas tank. It exploded in a ball of fire and took the car with it.

Motormaster lost sight of the humans in the conflagration – it was all he could do just to drag himself away from the unbearable heat as the other Stunticons scrambled to their feet. How did they all manage to move so much faster than him? He was dimly aware of Wildrider letting himself down from the roof with a rope and running over to them. Breakdown tossed him a set of keys and the two of them hurried to the handful of vehicles that had been parked outside the building.

Motormaster waited as Breakdown commandeered a car and drove over to him. He registered the unpleasant heat of the burning car but felt oddly detached, as though it was happening to someone else. Breakdown started to shift away from the driver's seat, but Motormaster shook his head; he knew he couldn't drive.

He heaved himself into the back seat and half-sprawled across it, both briefcase and shotgun slipping from his hands to the floor. Damaged though he was, Drag Strip insisted on riding in the front seat (as usual), so Dead End climbed into the back alongside him. Wildrider had taken another motorbike and shot ahead of them with a whoop – he seemed to be the only one who was still enjoying himself.

Motormaster rested his head against the cool glass of the window and closed his eyes. He didn't open them again until the car braked hard and he knew they were outside their temporary base. He fumbled for the door, got it open and managed to get out. Then he remembered his shotgun and the briefcase, and clenched his teeth through the ordeal of bending down to retrieve both.

"Motormaster," he heard Dead End say behind him. "What shall we do with the car?"

He tried to think. They needed to abandon it somewhere else – he couldn't risk either Ominsky's troops or the police tracking it to their location. But how to do that without dividing his forces? He couldn't risk that either.

"Later," he muttered. Any more speech was too much of an effort. He forced himself to step away from the car and to stand without swaying as Breakdown steered the vehicle into a parking spot nearby. Even then, he couldn't straighten up. When he tried, pain flared in his damaged side and forced him to stoop, as if bent over the injury.

Breakdown and Wildrider joined them, and Motormaster tossed the briefcase at Breakdown. Liquid heat continued to trickle from his side and he gripped it tightly, willing it to stop as he made himself walk. He didn't dare risk appearing weak in public. His only consolation was that Drag Strip looked far worse. Dead End was helping him along, but that was fine; Motormaster didn't need any assistance to get into the lobby and up the steps.

He found himself leaning heavily on the wall, though, and the steps seemed far higher and more numerous than he remembered. _You are not going to fall,_ he thought with each torturous pace of the climb. _Not going to fall. _

His legs felt like lead cylinders, weirdly disconnected from the rest of his frame, but still functional. _Lift to the higher step, stabilize weight, push off from the lower step._ Sweat bathed him by the time he gained the top step, and it was only then that he realized all the other Stunticons had reached it first. Motormaster didn't look at their faces.

He didn't quite know what he would have done if the elevator had been out of order, but it pinged open a moment later. His team got in first, and Motormaster staggered in after them, cramming himself into the little remaining space. _You'll be fine once we get inside the base. _

He stared at the floor, noting the smeared but still wet red marks on it. Either Dead End or Drag Strip must have been seriously damaged to leave those, but they would be fine too.

_Not going to fall._

The elevator door opened. Motormaster held on to the wall all the way to their apartment, especially when he had to fumble for his key in a pocket. His fingers felt thicker than normal and the pocket oddly shrunken, but he finally retrieved the key.

Inside the apartment, the phone began to ring.

Motormaster jabbed the key at the lock. It didn't go in. Snarling through his clenched teeth, he turned the key and tried again, twisting it hard when it finally slid into place. The phone kept ringing.

The door opened. Motormaster tried to stride to the phone as he would usually have done, and his legs gave way. Stumbling, he caught at the doorframe just in time. Even then, a raw new agony burned through his side, and for a moment all he wanted to do was lie down right there in the doorway, curl around the pain and wait for it to subside.

Then the humiliation of it overtook everything else. He was the leader of the Stunticons, the King of the Road, built by Megatron's own hand; it didn't matter that he was human, that he was damaged, that he was drained beyond comprehension. With a final effort he pushed himself upright as the other Stunticons edged past him through the open doorway.

The phone rang and rang, a constant shrill sound that seemed to echo in the apartment. Drag Strip made his wobbling way to what Motormaster thought would be the phone, except he reached the couch first and lay down on it. Breakdown sighed and went to answer the phone.

Motormaster tasted blood in his mouth from where he had bitten his lip. _Not going to fall._

Breakdown lifted the phone. The sudden silence was so abrupt that Motormaster heard his own hoarse ventilations and the rapid, runaway thud of a pulse in his ears.

"Yes," Breakdown said. "All right." He pressed the receiver to his chest and looked at Motormaster. "Ominsky."

It was as though a switch had been flicked inside Motormaster's mind, turning everything clear-edged and sharp as a shard of ice. He knew at that moment that this was it, this could be the turning-point in their war. He also knew deep down that in his current condition, he could not have fought off even a human as weak and flabby as Ominsky, but if he could persuade the loan shark to back off…

With the last of his strength he crossed the room to the phone. Breakdown handed the receiver to him and stepped back. Motormaster raised it to his ear.

"Yeah?" he said, letting Ominsky make the first move while he gathered his resources. This was his final chance; he couldn't fail.

Ominsky's voice was distant and tinny, but the coldness in it was evident. "You murdered one of my people and ruined an operation—"

"I can repay your money," Motormaster said simply.

There was a moment of dead air on the line. And another switch clicked home for Motormaster – he finally saw what it had all been about for Ominsky. What it was _always _about. The human wasn't a Decepticon – unless that Decepticon was Swindle, perhaps – and would pass up revenge for repayment.

Or more likely, Motormaster thought cynically, Ominsky would defer revenge until after he had his money back. _But I can deal with that as well._

"I'll pay you back the five thousand you lent me," he said, struggling to keep his voice calm and steady. "Plus interest."

"And you'll return my property."

"What property?"

"What you took from my place of business earlier this evening." Ominsky's tone grew colder. "The briefcase you stole. I want it back, along with all the documents it contains."

"All right," Motormaster said. Now came the hard part. "In three weeks." There was no reply. "That's how much time I'll need to repay everything I owe you."

He knew he was taking a chance, asking for the extra time – it had to be long enough for Breakdown to contact the base, but not so long that Ominsky would suspect something. Fuel pump thudding, his mouth unpleasantly dry, he waited. It reminded him of the time he had been flying above the Pacific Ocean in root-mode and his thrusters had sputtered, starting to fail; he had swiftly calculated the distance to the _Nemesis _and had known he would not make it.

Static rustled on the line, like the distant hiss of a snake.

"Three weeks?" Ominsky said, and his tone had less expression than Soundwave's.

_What now?_ Motormaster thought. _What do I need to say to convince him?_ He tried to think like a human, like a loan shark accustomed to people pleading for leniency or asking for more time to pay their debts. Surely this request was nothing new.

_But no humans have ever fought back like we did tonight,_ he realized suddenly. _We have him at a disadvantage for once. So we can negotiate… but if we fold too easily, he'll be suspicious._

"Yeah. Three weeks." His voice hardened, and he put all his authority into it. "And you stop the clock during that time. I'll pay all the interest up to this point, but no more."

"Agreed," Ominsky said. "Provided you return my property tonight."

Motormaster felt his body sag with relief. "Fine," he said. "There's a bus stop at the corner of 9th and Howard. It'll be there in ten minutes' time." The location was close enough to them that Wildrider was far more likely to reach it before Ominsky's troops.

He made an abrupt gesture with his free hand. Wildrider nodded, grabbed his crash helmet and hurried to the door.

"As long as I get that back, with everything it contains, our deal stands," Ominsky said. "But there will be no more extensions on your loan, Mr. Morter. After three weeks, starting from now, you will repay my money. If you don't, you can spend it on caskets. Pine ones."

The phone went dead. Motormaster replaced the receiver, frowning as he saw the drying red stain his hand had left on it. _Doesn't matter. It's over, finally. _

He turned to tell his subordinates what had happened, and the room swayed around him. Everything dissolved into a white mist. Motormaster reached out blindly, and that was his last conscious act before the ground rushed up to meet him.

He didn't feel any pain when he struck it. That was a relief, although he knew he didn't have the strength to get up again. Through the mist he could hear voices.

"_What the…"_

"_Motor…"_

"…_dying?"_

Motormaster thought he recognized the other Stunticons' voices, but they sounded as if they were speaking from a long distance away. They were at the other end of a tunnel, moving further away from him with every moment.

Then there was only silence.


	31. Suspension of Disbelief

_Chapter summary: Dead End takes the wheel and spills the beans._

– _anon_decepticon and QoS/mdperera_

_Thanks also to Kookaburra 1701 for her support and input, and to all our readers!_

* * *

**Chapter 31 – Suspension of Disbelief**

"Motormaster." There was no response. He looked at Breakdown. "What happened to him?"

"A knife," Breakdown said. "Ominsky's woman stabbed him."

"Is he dying?" Drag Strip repeated hopefully.

Dead End frowned. "Possibly." He knelt and probed Motormaster's side with his fingers. They came away wet. "He's leaking fluid. Get something to plug the hole."

Breakdown ducked into the kitchen and returned with a wad of paper towels. Dead End took them from him and pressed them into the hole. They were soaked through in seconds.

"Not big enough," he said. "Get a towel."

"Not mine," Drag Strip said. "I don't want him leaking all over it."

Breakdown paused midway to the washrack. "Which one should I get?"

Dead End didn't really want to use _his_ towel, either – he'd never get the stains out. "Motormaster's," he said. "It's his fluid." Breakdown nodded and went to retrieve it. "And hurry." The liquid warmth was beginning to drip through his fingers.

"What's the rush?" Drag Strip said.

Dead End shot him a withering glare, but Drag Strip's gaze was focused on Motormaster. Breakdown emerged from the hall with the towel in hand, but stopped when he saw them, sensing the sudden rise of tension within the room.

Drag Strip shrugged. "He can't exactly hit us while he's offline, now can he?"

"Well, yeah," Breakdown said, glancing from him to Dead End as he handed over the towel. "But…"

Drag Strip pulled himself to his feet and sauntered over. He prodded Motormaster's inert frame with his toe. "You know how our mighty leader hates it when anyone tries to help him."

The door banged open, making them jump. "What's goin' on?" Wildrider asked, pulling off his helmet.

"Nothing," Drag Strip replied. He prodded Motormaster again, harder. "See? We should all just calm down and think this through."

He delivered a kick to Motormaster's side. There was no reaction – at least not from Motormaster. Drag Strip winced. "Slag, that hurt my foot." He balanced carefully on the damaged foot and drew back the functional one.

"Drag Strip…" Wildrider fidgeted uneasily, his gaze flickering between them.

"What?" Drag Strip said.

"If you keep doing that, he might wake up," Breakdown said.

For a moment Drag Strip looked uncertain, but then his lip curled. "Well. That's good. Then he can get his own slagging towel."

"Enough," Dead End said, getting to his feet. "Wildrider, Drag Strip, get him up. Breakdown, find a human repair facility. There must be one nearby." The words sounded oddly distant, even though they'd come from his own vocalizer.

For a moment they all just stared at him. As usual, Drag Strip recovered first.

"You want to _repair_ him? Why bother?" He punctuated the question with another kick.

"Because I seriously doubt Megatron will have any use for a Menasor without a body, and I for one have no intention of dying as a human," he replied. "Now _get him up_."

Something in his tone or expression must have convinced them, because after that they obeyed his orders without question. Fortunately Wildrider had returned promptly from delivering Ominsky's briefcase, otherwise their injuries would have made manhandling Motormaster's massive frame back into the stolen car far more difficult.

They reached the repair facility within minutes, although to Dead End it seemed more like hours. He told Breakdown to dispose of the car while the rest of them hauled Motormaster inside. It was a gamble, but he knew Breakdown would do everything in his power to avoid being seen, let alone followed. There was no other choice.

The human medics took Motormaster, wheeling him away on a mobile metal berth, and then turned their attention on him and Drag Strip. They tried their best to stave the humans off, but there was little they could do to conceal their injuries, so in the end they relented and allowed themselves to be led into separate rooms. Wildrider stayed behind to wait for Breakdown.

The humans asked him a lot of questions. Dead End answered the ones he could and lied about the ones he couldn't. The gash on his forearm made by the broken bottle one of Ominsky's troops had thrown at him was cleaned and bandaged, and then they took some of his blood, an act which mystified Dead End. There'd been plenty of it on his clothing, but they insisted on extracting it from his arm.

Moments after they finished, a commotion broke out in the room next door where they'd taken Drag Strip, and he nearly bowled over a medic in trying to get to him. It turned out Drag Strip was fine; he was just afraid of needles. Dead End made apologies for them both, and they were released to return to the waiting area. Motormaster, they were told, was still in surgery.

After an hour or so of waiting, Dead End sent the others home. He was more than a little reluctant to do so, but Breakdown was worried about leaving the base and computer unguarded for so long, and sitting quietly for prolonged periods had never been Wildrider's forte.

The moment they were out of his sight, a wave of panic hit him like a head-on collision, sending him bolting for the restroom where he spent the next quarter-hour emptying the contents of his fuel tank until his ribs ached. Sweat beaded on his brow even though his skin felt icy cold, and for a long terrifying moment he could only cling to the sink for support, certain he was going to offline just like Motormaster had.

_If he dies, it's all over._ The surviving Stunticons would be trapped in their human bodies, endlessly subject to their countless flaws – among them the peculiar penchant for expelling fluids from every available orifice without reason or warning – with no hope of escape. They would live out short, miserable lives and die in agony.

And they would expect _him_ to lead them.

"Mr. Deed?"

Dead End pushed himself upright with effort, running a hand over his face. "Yes?" He could see the human medic reflected in the mirror in front of him, peering in at him with concerned eyes.

The woman smiled, pushing the door open a little wider. "I came to tell you Mr. Morter is in recovery. The doctor says the surgery went well. We'll need to keep him here a day or two for observation, but barring infection the doctor said he expects him to pull through."

"Thank you," he said.

"Would you like to see him? He's still under the anesthetic, but the doctor said you can look in on him as long as you wear a gown and a mask."

He agreed to their conditions, and they gave him a loose-fitting garment made of cloth and a paper mask that reminded Dead End of the metal one he used to have. If they'd given him a visor, he'd have felt almost complete.

He was then led to another room where the medic drew back a curtain to reveal Motormaster lying on a berth, wrapped in blankets and festooned with tubes and wires connected to various monitoring devices. Offline and dead to the world, Motormaster was barely recognizable. Without his cruel personality to animate them, his features seemed almost agreeable, and Dead End had to remind himself that he hated him.

"It'll be a while before he wakes up," the medic said. "You should go home and get some rest yourself. You can come back tomorrow – visiting hours are from eleven to eight-thirty."

Since there was nothing more he could do, Dead End returned the garments and left, returning to the base on foot to conserve their limited funds. The price the repair facility had demanded for Motormaster's treatment had been downright alarming, but fortunately they'd been willing to accept the crumpled bills he'd retrieved from Motormaster's pockets. He had a small cache of his own hidden back at the base, and he suspected Drag Strip did too, so it was unlikely they'd starve, but he saw no reason to squander what little they had. Without jobs, it wouldn't last long.

And there was still the loan shark to consider. From what he'd heard of Motormaster's end of the conversation, Ominsky had agreed to a temporary cease-fire, but whether or not he intended to keep his word remained to be seen. Had the human been a Decepticon, treachery would have been almost assured.

None of the other Stunticons seemed worried, though. When Dead End arrived at the apartment, he found them piled on the couch watching TV – evidently one of the first things they'd done was relocate it to the living room – and from the looks of things, they'd ordered pizza as well.

Drag Strip was the first to notice his return. "Is he dead?"

"No." Dead End shut the door behind him. "Although it's probably just a matter of time. They want to keep him there for observation."

"They want to _watch_ him?" Breakdown shuddered.

"It means they don't know whether he's going to live or not," he explained. "Although they say it seems likely."

"Well, _whoopee_," Drag Strip said. "We should have just let him die."

Dead End thought about arguing with him, but then realized it was pointless. "Any word from the loan shark?"

"Not yet," Breakdown said. "No one followed us, and no one's tried to break in. The phone rang a couple of times, but when we answered, they just hung up."

Dead End considered that for a moment, but couldn't see how it could be construed as a threat. He tried to think if there was anything else he needed to ask, but nothing came to mind. He felt hollow and weary to the core.

"Is there coffee?" he asked.

Breakdown shook his head. "We're out."

"But we've got sodas," Wildrider said, his optics still glued to the television screen. "And pizza."

"What are you watching?"

"_Duel_," Wildrider replied.

"It's great," Drag Strip said. "There's a tanker truck trying to deactivate this Plymouth. I hope the Plymouth slags him."

Not having anything better to do, Dead End helped himself to a soda and joined them.

* * *

He awoke to an empty berth.

That alone didn't worry him – Breakdown often rose early, and spent most of his waking hours in front of the computer – but without the reassurance of the gestalt link, Dead End never felt quite settled until he'd seen the others with his own optics. Throwing on some clothes, he went out into the living room.

Breakdown's chair was empty.

Only the faint sound of running water from the washrack prevented his mild unease from exploding into genuine alarm. Nevertheless he moved with uncharacteristic haste to confirm that Wildrider and Drag Strip were still asleep in their room. (They were, which meant Breakdown was the one in the 'rack.) Satisfied that all of his gestaltmates were accounted for, Dead End returned to the living room.

The phone rang as he passed it. He picked it up out of sheer reflex. "Yes?"

There was a pause, filled with the sound of rapid breathing. "Dan? Is that you?"

Dead End blinked. The voice sounded vaguely familiar. "Yes?"

"Are you all right? You haven't been to work in weeks. When are you coming back?"

That allowed him to place the voice. _Trevor._ "I'm not."

"I have to talk to you," Trevor said, still breathing hard, as if he'd been running. "Can I meet you somewhere?"

Dead End frowned, glancing toward the washrack. "I don't think that would be wise."

"Please," Trevor begged. "Please, I really need to talk to you. It'll only take a minute. Just tell me where and when."

Dead End hesitated. The sound of water from the washrack abruptly cut off. "Not now," he said. He wanted to say _not ever,_ but he knew if he refused, Trevor would just keep on trying. "Tonight. Six o' clock. There's an alley that runs alongside the building. Wait for me there."

"You got it," Trevor replied, sounding both relieved and elated. "Do you want me to –?"

Dead End never found out what the rest of the question was, because Breakdown chose that moment to step out of the washrack. He returned the phone to its cradle.

Breakdown spotted him immediately. "Who called?"

"I don't know. They hung up before I could ask."

"Whoever it is, I wish they'd stop calling us," Breakdown said irritably, ruffling his damp hair with a towel. "It's like they're watching us over the phone, checking to see if we're still here."

"I thought it might be the hospital," he said.

"Oh." Breakdown's expression sobered. "Are you going back there today?"

"I don't think I have a choice," he said. "If he wakes up there alone, he'll probably kill them all."

* * *

Dead End didn't mind spending the better part of the day at the repair facility waiting for Motormaster to wake up – it gave him time to catch up on his reading – but online Motormaster was far less pleasant company. It took some effort to persuade him to remain there until he'd recovered from his injuries, but once Dead End had accomplished that task, he was only too happy to leave.

He remembered to stop for coffee on the way home, and was within sight of their apartment building when a voice called out to him.

"Psst! Over here!"

The call had come from the alley that separated their building from the one next to it, and Dead End glanced toward it instinctively. A familiar face grinned back at him.

"Wanna buy a watch?" Trevor said.

Dead End blinked. "What?"

"Joke," Trevor replied with a shrug. "I'm glad you came. I was starting to think you weren't gonna show."

In truth, Dead End had forgotten he'd told Trevor to wait for him in the alley – he'd had far more important things on his processor – but he saw no reason to tell _him_ that. "What do you want?"

Trevor gave him a hurt look. "I was _worried_ about you. I haven't seen you in weeks."

"Ah," he said. "Well, now you have." He turned to leave.

"Dan, wait!" Trevor grabbed his arm, and Dead End flinched – the human had seized him right at the site of his recent injury. He yanked his arm back and glared.

"Sorry." Trevor released him. "It's just…I miss talking to you. C-could we go somewhere? Just for a little while?"

His tone was so earnest, his expression so _hopeful_ that Dead End hesitated. He knew he should say no. Indulging the human would only encourage him. But he couldn't bring himself to refuse. If he was honest, the fact that Trevor had gone to such lengths just to talk to him was downright flattering.

But it was also dangerous. Dead End frowned, glancing over his shoulder. There was no room for outsiders within a gestalt. Continued association with him would probably get Trevor killed.

Dead End…didn't want that. It seemed a poor way to repay Trevor's admiration. Flattering though it was, he knew he had to end this. If he didn't, Motormaster might do it for him, and in a far more lethal fashion.

"All right," he said.

He chose the deli because it was familiar, close to their apartment, yet an unlikely destination for Drag Strip or Wildrider. Breakdown, he knew, would remain in the base with the computer, and with Motormaster confined to the repair facility, the odds of their being discovered were slim.

But just to be safe, he chose a table at the back, furthest from the window. Trevor settled into the seat opposite him, looking around curiously. "How's the coffee here?" he asked.

"Pretty good, if you ask me," a woman's voice replied.

Dead End recognized the human female standing next to their table; it was the same woman who had served him coffee in the past. She smiled when he looked up. "You're Tom's roommate, right? I'm Val."

He felt his optics widen, and fought to control his expression. He knew Motormaster frequented this establishment, and that he'd been associating with what Drag Strip referred to as "that woman from the deli," but he'd never considered the possibility that she might be able to accurately identify _him_.

"…yes," he replied after an awkward pause. To his relief, he sounded just as apathetic as he always did.

"Nice to meet you," she said. "What can I get you boys?" She glanced at Trevor.

"He's no one," Dead End blurted out. Trevor gave him an injured look. "Just coffee," he muttered.

A faint frown crossed Val's features. "Right," she said. "Two coffees, coming right up."

Dead End cursed himself inwardly. Why had he brought Trevor here? Why hadn't he just said no? Would the woman report this encounter to Motormaster? If she did, how would Motormaster react?

While he seethed in silence, Trevor drummed his fingers on the tabletop, occasionally shooting him odd looks that Dead End did his best to ignore. Val returned a few minutes later with their coffee, setting the cups before them in a businesslike fashion and departing again without a word.

"You never told me you had a roommate," Trevor said once she was out of earshot.

Dead End eyed him warily. "You never asked."

Trevor opened his mouth to reply, but Dead End interrupted before he could speak. "You need to leave," he said. "You need to go away and not come back."

"Funny," Trevor replied, not sounding remotely amused. "That's exactly what _he_ said."

Dead End blinked. "He…who?"

"That psycho you live with," Trevor said.

"How did you –?" Dead End replied before he could stop himself. This situation was rapidly spiraling out of his control. When had Trevor crossed paths with _Wildrider_, and why hadn't Wildrider mentioned it?

"Find out about him? He threatened to kill me, that's how."

Dead End frowned. Wildrider may have been insane, but he wasn't homicidal. Only one of them truly fit _that_ description – but if Trevor had met Motormaster, how had he survived? "You must run very fast."

"It was him, wasn't it?" Trevor pressed. "That night you got beat up – that's why you didn't want to call the cops."

"No, that –" He cut himself off again. Trevor didn't need to know about Ominsky. "He didn't do that."

"What about your arm?" Trevor said, nodding toward the one he'd grabbed earlier. "I suppose he didn't do _that_ either?"

"No," Dead End said. "That was…someone else."

Trevor stared at him, his dark eyes pained. "He _hits_ you," he said. "Why are you defending him?"

"I'm not." A guilty little voice in the back of his head reminded him that he'd been the one to insist they save Motormaster, thereby ensuring they continued to suffer his abuse. "I'm _not_," he insisted.

"Are you in love with him?" Trevor asked quietly.

Dead End's jaw nearly hit the table. "_Pit_, no."

"But you are having sex with him," Trevor said, his mouth twisting as if he'd bitten into something sour. He looked away, avoiding Dead End's optics. "Does he _make_ you have sex with him?"

Dead End considered lying, but decided he didn't like the implications. His duties were none of Trevor's business, but he wasn't _ashamed _of them_._ "Occasionally."

Trevor looked stricken. "Why do you stay with him? Is it money? Is that why you were looking for a job? Were you trying to make enough to get away from him, only he found out and beat you up so you'd quit?"

"No," he said, wishing Trevor would just drop the subject. He could never tell him the real reason.

"But…" Trevor leaned closer, his voice dropping to a whisper. "He beats you. He…he _rapes_ you. You can't tell me you're okay with that."

Trevor's gaze was too intense, too intimate. Dead End looked away. "It doesn't matter."

"Of course it _matters_." Trevor's voice was hushed but emphatic. "There are places, people who'd help you – _I'd _help you! Sure, I live in a dorm now, but I could get an apartment – you could stay with me!"

Dead End shook his head. "I can't do that."

"Why not?" Trevor said. "I understand if you're afraid, but –"

"I'm not _afraid_," he interrupted sharply, offended by the suggestion. "It's simply not an option."

Trevor opened his mouth to argue, but Dead End's patience had run out. "_Trevor_. Listen to me. This – whatever you think _this_ is…it can't work."

"It can," Trevor insisted. "If you'd just let me help you…"

"I can't leave," he said, his tone resigned but resolute. "Not ever."

For once, Trevor didn't argue. Instead he reached across the table and took hold of Dead End's hand.

It wasn't the first time Trevor had touched him, but this time it felt _wrong_. He pulled his hand away. "I shouldn't be here," he said. "I should never have agreed to meet with you."

"I think we both know why you did," Trevor said. "You're trying to protect me."

Dead End started to object, but then realized Trevor was right. That was _exactly_ what he was doing.

"I know you like me," Trevor said, tilting his head to meet his optics. "Tell me you don't."

He hesitated, but only for a moment._ It doesn't matter. _"I don't like you."

"Liar." Trevor smiled sadly. "Please let me help you. No matter what you think, no matter what he's told you, you don't deserve to live like that. No one does."

_No one human, perhaps. _"You don't understand."

"Then explain it to me," Trevor said. "Why can't you leave him?"

Dead End huffed in frustration. No one who was part of a gestalt would ever pose such a question. It would be like asking a human why he refused to abandon his own limbs. "I can't tell you that."

Trevor reached for his hand again, and again it felt like an invasion. Abruptly Dead End understood why. Ever since they'd become human, they'd touched each other for comfort and reassurance. Touch had become their gestalt link.

And Trevor was an outsider. "Stop touching me."

Trevor frowned, but moved his hand away. "Sorry," he said. He leaned back, slouching down in his seat. "I just…I don't understand. I don't understand why you'd choose to be with him instead of me."

Dead End shook his head. "It would never work."

"Why not?"

_Because I'm not human._ But he couldn't say that to Trevor. "We're not the same kind."

Trevor frowned, his brow furrowing. "What do you mean?"

Dead End hesitated. How was he supposed to explain? "I'm not like you, Trevor. I'm not…" _Human._ He sighed. "I can't be what you want."

"You already are what I want," Trevor said. "Whatever you are, I want it."

It was then that he realized Trevor would never give up – he'd become too invested in the illusion of Dead End as a human. And because Trevor didn't know he _wasn't_ human, nothing Dead End said would dissuade him.

…except the truth.

_I've gone as insane as Wildrider. _The truth would certainly put a damper on Trevor's enthusiasm – no human would ever propose to set up house with a giant robot, let alone a Decepticon – yet revealing it would be nothing short of madness.

But then again, that might also be a solution. If Trevor thought he was insane, that would put him off as well.

_I can't believe I'm doing this. _"Trevor…" he began, keeping his voice low. "It's like this…the Decepticons built a machine to make energon, but it was damaged. Instead of converting matter into energy, it inadvertently turned Cybertronians into humans."

Trevor stared at him as if he'd suddenly sprouted a second head – which Dead End supposed wouldn't be any less ludicrous than what he'd just said. "Wait…are you saying…that happened to _you?_"

"Yes," he said.

Trevor gaped some more, fumbling for words. "…Jazz?"

Now it was Dead End's turn to stare. "What?"

"Are you Jazz? Or that other really cool car they have...Wheeljack?"

"I'm not an _Autobot," _he said, feeling more than a little insulted.

"Well then what are y –" Trevor said. "Wait, you're a _Decepticon?_"

"Keep your voice down," he whispered fiercely. "…and yes."

Trevor's eyes were as wide as saucers. "Please tell me you're not Megatron," he said. "I don't think I can handle knowing I kissed Megatron."

"I'm not Megatron." _Although that might be nice, _he thought_. Motormaster would have to do whatever I said. _"My designation is Dead End."

"So that's not just your nickname?" Trevor said. "You're actually a Decepticon called Dead End?"

"I'm a Stunticon," he said, feeling mildly affronted. "Surely you've heard of us?"

"Us? You mean there are _more_ of you?" Dead End gave him an icy glare; Trevor flushed and began fumbling with his coffee, dumping in another packet of cream. "Oh! Oh right! The Stunticons. Sure, sure, I've heard of you. You do, um…stunts."

"No doubt you've seen our fantastic aerial maneuvers," he replied dryly.

"Oh, yeah – those are great," Trevor agreed, nodding rapidly.

"You are a very poor liar," he said. Trevor's flush deepened. "But I trust you understand now why it would be unwise to continue our association."

"You mean that creep who threatened me? Is he a Decepticon too?"

"Yes. And it was no idle threat. He _will_ kill you." He fixed the human with a steady, no-nonsense glare. "Which is why it is imperative that you do not attempt to contact me again."

Instead of looking properly cowed, Trevor beamed. "I knew it – you _are_ trying to protect me."

Dead End sighed. "Trevor…"

"So you're really a robot? One that turns into a car or something?"

"A Porsche 928," he said, not without a hint of pride.

"Wow," Trevor said. "I can totally see that." He grinned broadly for a moment, but then his expression sobered. "So what are you gonna do now? I mean, now that you're human?"

"Find a way to change back, obviously," he said, taking a sip of his neglected coffee. "I certainly have no desire to remain like this. I can't even polish myself."

"Well, technically…" Trevor waggled his eyebrows. "Wait, can you _do_ that? Turn yourself back into a robot, I mean."

"If we succeed in contacting the _Nemesis_, yes." He frowned. "Assuming we don't die horribly first. These bodies of yours are revoltingly fragile."

"Maybe I could help you," Trevor offered. "There's this wiz kid at my school with a research grant, and he's built this huge transmitter –"

"I don't think that will be necessary," he said. Did Trevor honestly think they'd been idle all this time? That they hadn't been trying to find a way to change back from the very moment they'd become humans? "The situation is well in hand. In fact, it would be wisest for you to forget we ever had this conversation."

"Right," Trevor said, nodding eagerly. "You got it – mum's the word."

Dead End gave a curt nod and got to his feet, gathering his belongings and dropping enough money on the table to cover the bill. Seeing that he was leaving, Trevor jumped up as well, following him out the door.

He turned to head back to the base, but Trevor called out to him before he'd gone two strides.

Dead End turned back, regarding the human impatiently. "What is it now?"

Trevor fidgeted for a moment. "…can I give you my phone number? In case you change your mind?"

Dead End sighed, rubbing the spot between his eyes. "You seem to be missing the point, Trevor."

"Please?" Trevor said. "I won't call you again, I promise. But…well, I'd like for you to have it."

Dead End considered that for a moment. "You won't try to contact me?"

Trevor shook his head. "Only if you call me first."

Dead End eyed him suspiciously, but his expression seemed sincere. "Very well."

"Great," Trevor said. He dug into his pocket and pulled out a pen. "Have you got anything to write on?"

Dead End checked the plastic bag he was carrying, but all it contained was the can of coffee he'd bought earlier; he'd already discarded the receipt. The only other items he had with him were his gun and the book he'd taken to read at the repair facility – and he wasn't about to let Trevor write on _that_.

He did have a bookmark, though – a nice tasseled one he'd found in one of the books he'd borrowed from Paula's café. He didn't really want to spoil it either, but he supposed once they'd regained their true forms, he wouldn't need it any more.

He handed it over; Trevor scribbled down his number and gave it back. Dead End accepted it without so much as glance. "You do realize I won't be calling you?" he said.

Trevor looked saddened. "Yeah, I know," he said. "But at least this way I can pretend someday you will."

He looked so forlorn Dead End almost felt guilty. "You'll meet someone else," he said. "A nice Honda, perhaps."

Trevor huffed a laugh, returning the pen to his pocket. "Yeah, maybe." He looked up, meeting Dead End's gaze. "Figures…I finally meet the perfect guy, and he turns out to be a giant robot from outer space."

_Perfect?_ Dead End arched a brow as Trevor shook his head and walked away, and for a moment he imagined what it would be like to be free – to have no ties to a gestalt, no mental barriers to hide behind or delicate emotional balances to maintain. To be free to love…

A familiar face arose in his mind…but it wasn't Trevor's. He pushed the thought away.

Some things, he knew, were never meant to be.


	32. Tire Straits

_Chapter summary : Motormaster wakes up in hospital and is less than an ideal patient._

_Thanks also to Kookaburra 1701 for her support and input, and to all our readers!_

– _anon_decepticon and QoS/mdperera_

* * *

**Chapter 32 : Tire Straits**

The ceiling was blue and blurry – therefore it wasn't his own, either in his room at their temporary base or in his quarters on the ship. Motormaster closed his eyes. He guessed he was having one of those strange pseudosensory events that sometimes happened during recharge. Sometimes he saw himself as he had been, in either root- or alt-mode, driving or fighting or simply back on the _Nemesis_, and those images were so vivid that he always came out of recharge expecting to find himself in his real frame again.

Once or twice, though, he had seen himself trapped in a circle of Autobots, all giants compared to him now, all of them pointing and laughing at him. He had struggled out of recharge in a cold sweat, and the relief at finding himself alone had been overcome by a fresh surge of disgust at the consequences of his human condition. Apparently there was no such thing as an uneventful recharge for him any longer.

So now he waited for the illusion to pass, and it was a moment before he realized it wasn't an illusion this time.

The bed beneath him was as unfamiliar as the ceiling, and his human body felt stranger than usual. The last thing he remembered was the phone call to Ominsky, when he had finally made the loan shark back off. He couldn't recall what had happened after that.

Opening his eyes again, he turned his head. The first thing he saw was a clear plastic bag full of fluid that seemed to be trickling down through a tube. The second thing he saw was a familiar form – Dead End – slouched strutlessly in a nearby chair reading a book.

Motormaster looked around, but there was no one else in the room. He got his right elbow beneath him and tried to push himself up.

That caught Dead End's attention, although he took the time to mark his place in the book before he closed it and got up. "You may want to wait until the medics are here," he said. "From what they've told me of your condition, you shouldn't be attempting to move too much on your own just yet."

"What do you mean, my condition?" Motormaster said. His throat felt dry and scratchy, but he tried to speak with his usual control and authority. "What did they do to me?" He suddenly realized that as well as taking his clothes – and substituting them with a loose-fitting garment that barely covered him – the humans in this place seemed to have put other tubes in him as well.

Dead End frowned. "Surgery, for one thing. Evidently that cut in your side needed to be welded… no, sewn shut. And then they said you had lost a lot of blood, so you got a transfusion."

"A transfusion? From humans?" Motormaster's gut roiled with nausea. Did that mean he had fluid from other humans in him? When he changed back into a mech, would _that_ fluid remain human? He had a sudden, horrifying image of a tractor-trailer leaking red from its joints and transformation seams.

"I suppose so," Dead End said vaguely. "They asked if we were related and if we could donate, but Drag Strip is afraid of needles, Wildrider accidentally broke the syringe and it turns out that I have a rare blood type." He actually looked pleased at that.

Motormaster growled under his breath. "Well, I'm not staying here. Find my clothes."

"I don't know where they are. And the medics said you shouldn't go home until you're out of danger."

"They'll be the ones in danger if they don't let me out of here!" Motormaster grasped the tube connected to his arm and yanked it out.

There was a sudden sharp pain – he hadn't realized until that moment that the tube was connected to a needle – but what startled him was the fresh blood that immediately welled out of his arm. Dead End crossed the distance to the bed and pressed a button on the wall, leaning what looked like his whole weight on it.

Motormaster didn't know what that was supposed to do, so he clamped down on the wound with his other hand, hoping that would seal the injury, and tried to sit up. The sharp heat that drove through his side made him feel as though he was being stabbed all over again. Wincing, he lay back against the pillow, deciding that he would try again as soon as the pain subsided, but before he could do so two human females in white clothing came hurrying in.

"He pulled the needle out," Dead End explained, straightening up.

"Mr. Morter, please stay in bed," one of them said. Motormaster raised a hand to swat her halfway across the room, then caught sight of Dead End's slight headshake. Slowly he lowered his hand, understanding only too well – if he attacked any humans in this facility, he might still manage to fight his way out, but he would draw attention to himself.

"You need to rest," the other human said. "And please don't try to remove any more tubes yourself. It's going to hurt a lot worse if you do that with the Foley catheter."

"I want to leave," Motormaster said through his teeth. He could guess what his team would be doing in his absence – wasting time, fooling around and paying no regard at all to their safety.

"When the doctor says you can. Besides, it's nearly dinnertime. You must be hungry."

That was true enough – Motormaster couldn't remember the last time he had eaten. Not that he would give the humans the satisfaction of knowing they were right. He kept silent while they sealed the wound on his arm and ignored them when they asked to take his temperature, especially when he realized they wanted to stick yet another tube into his mouth. It was like some bizarre form of torture. Apparently humans had that much in common with Decepticon medics.

Finally the two humans gave up and left. Dead End settled back in his chair and Motormaster glared at him.

"Status report!" he said.

"There's nothing to report," Dead End said, hooking one leg over the arm of the chair. "Breakdown's program is working, the loan shark has left us alone—" He stopped as a rattling sound came from the corridor outside, and a moment later another human pushed a little cart into the room.

Motormaster kept his cold, closed expression with an effort of will, because the food looked far better than anything he was used to. He bit into a chicken leg the moment the human servant was out of the room, then scooped up a large spoonful of mashed potatoes. There was a dish of salad, a roll and a cup of coffee as well.

"At least they feed us here," he said grudgingly.

"They should," Dead End said. "We're paying just over a thousand dollars for it."

Motormaster nearly choked on the green beans.

* * *

Despite the unfamiliarity of his surroundings, Motormaster was tired enough to sleep that night. He'd shared some of his dinner with Dead End, who wasn't being fed despite having paid the medics over a thousand dollars, and then Dead End had left – apparently "visiting hours" were over. Motormaster tried to call their temporary base, but the phone was engaged, so he decided that he would leave the hospital the next day. Surely by then his human self-repair systems, inferior though they were, would have taken care of his injuries, especially now that he had received surgery as well.

But after breakfast the next morning, the medics arrived in a little group, examined a clipboard at the foot of his bed and told him that he would be there for a few more days at least. Motormaster said nothing, but once they were gone he looked at the clipboard himself to see if they were lying. Naturally, he couldn't decipher any of it.

He decided he was going to leave that night, though, regardless of what any human thought. He needed to be back in charge of his team, and he was reaching the point where he didn't care how much attention he attracted in the process. Besides, the security in the place seemed minimal. Even the little plastic tag around his wrist didn't appear to contain a transmitting device that would tell the hospital where he was.

He was rapidly becoming bored, too. There was nothing to do in the hospital except stare at the TV, and Motormaster hated that. He would have preferred to make the news rather than watching it. The human females came to remove the last of the tubes they had connected to him, and told him that he could move around now.

Moving around was exactly what Motormaster intended to do – in the direction of their temporary base, a one-way route at all speed – but he had no intention of allowing the humans to guess his plans and stop him. So he refused.

"I need to rest more," he said. "And I want my clothes back." He didn't plan on walking around in the distasteful covering they had put on him, much less leaving the repair facility in it.

"Your personal items are in that cabinet, but the ER staff would have had to cut through your clothes before the surgery. Is there someone who could bring you more?"

Motormaster had to make several more phone calls before he was able to reach their base. Dead End answered on the fourth attempt and agreed to send some clothes, though during the next "visiting hours", the head that poked around the open door was Drag Strip's. "Over here!" he called out, waving a hand, and the rest of the team piled into the room as well.

"Hey, boss!" Wildrider said. "We got you some fruit." He dropped a paper bag on to the bed.

Motormaster upended the bag. A bare grape stem and some orange peels fell out.

Drag Strip grinned. "But it took so long to get here, and we were hungry..."

Motormaster crumpled the bag. "Come here and let me hit you."

Wildrider giggled. "Hey, if he hits you hard enough, the two of you could be hospital roomies. You could have wheelchair races!"

"I'd win," Drag Strip said.

"Are you OK?" Breakdown said, glancing at Motormaster.

"I _was_." Motormaster glared at Wildrider and Drag Strip. Dead End seemed to get the hint, because he left Motormaster's clothes on the bedside table and herded the two of them out. Breakdown sat on the edge of the chair, looking uncomfortable.

"What the frag is taking you so long to get through to the base?" Motormaster snapped.

Breakdown jolted. "We don't have the access codes," he said. "My program has to try thousands of different complications, and that takes time. It's doing its best." He fidgeted, then got up. "Actually, I should be home right now, in case it gets through."

Motormaster watched him leave through narrowed optics. While it made complete sense that Breakdown remained at their base, he also felt very much alone in the repair facility. He heard Dead End in the corridor outside, asking one of the humans how long it would be until he was able to return home, but Motormaster could tell the question wasn't exactly motivated by a desire to keep the team together.

"You'll have to check with Dr. Rosenberg," the human replied. "Are you a relative of Mr. Morter's?"

"I suppose so."

Motormaster heard the human laugh. "You don't look anything like him!"

"Good to know," Dead End said. Motormaster set his teeth and thought of ordering Dead End back inside, but decided he was likely to learn more by listening for the time being. Unfortunately, Dead End seemed to have walked away after that, because there was silence outside. No one came back into his room.

_I should be at the base. What if they get through to the _Nemesis _and I'm not there? _He could only imagine what Wildrider or Drag Strip might say to Megatron in his absence. And although it was humiliating for his team to see him as weak, he didn't think them not seeing him at all was any better. Routine and discipline had a way of going straight to the Pit when he wasn't around.

He twitched restlessly until it occurred to him that he was behaving just like Wildrider, and he forced himself to lie still instead. He would only be there a little while longer, though to his annoyance another human was brought in to occupy the second bed in his room. Most humans were beneath Motormaster's attention, but he couldn't help noticing the anxious gestaltmates or friends who hovered around the damaged human, making sure he was comfortable or just talking to him.

The human didn't even answer – perhaps because he was more seriously damaged, judging from the number of tubes and beeping monitors – but that didn't seem to dissuade his supporters. They had even brought armfuls of flowers, which made the room smell cloyingly sweet. Motormaster stared fixedly at the TV on the wall.

That was when he saw a special news broadcast about a recent battle with the Decepticons. He stopped himself from sitting up just in time, and waited eagerly. Watching such a battle – especially from a jerking, blurred human-camera perspective – was not at all the same as fighting in it, but it was the best he could do for now.

The outcome seemed to be a retreat on both sides, though. There were a few seconds of footage of Defensor, followed by a blinding flash, and the broadcast then cut to the Autobots driving away at top speed. Motormaster found that highly entertaining and longed to help them on their way with some gunshots up the tailpipe.

_The sooner we get our frames back, the sooner that will happen._

Cybertronian eras passed before his roommate's fluttering retinue departed, though to Motormaster's disgust, they didn't take any of their flowers with them. _Any more of that stench and I'll need my own air supply_, he thought as he dug into his nighttime meal – no sense in missing that, after all.

He finished his chocolate pudding and glanced over at the other human, in case the repair bay staff had given him a meal too. Motormaster would have been happy to eat a second helping of everything – especially the pudding – but disappointingly, the other human had nothing.

He frowned. At first he had thought the human was in recharge, but now it looked as though the human was in stasis lock. Maybe that was why he hadn't been given any food? Either way, it gave Motormaster an idea.

He got up and took off the garment the repair bay staff had dressed him in. A thick pad of bandage was taped to his side, and he peeled that away gingerly, teeth set, so that he could evaluate the injury. It looked red and swollen where it had been stitched closed and was sore to the touch, but it wasn't leaking and he could move his left arm without too much pain.

He put on his own clothes, then closed the curtains around his bed and went over to the other human.

The machines around that human beeped and hissed. Air bubbled through a fluid-filled cylinder, and clear liquid dripped from an overhead bag. Motormaster plucked a tube out of the human's arm.

Nothing happened, and Motormaster's brows knotted. But then again, nothing had happened when he had done that to himself either. He reached for the thickest tube and yanked it free from the human's neck.

A machine _shrieked_. As if it was doing all the screaming the human was no longer capable of, Motormaster thought as he hurried away and stood behind the door. A moment later it was flung open so hard that he narrowly bit back a gasp, and three of the repair bay staff dashed in, heading straight for the other human. In the panic, no one noticed him as he slipped out.

He strode down the corridor outside, determined to look as though he had every right to leave, and it must have worked, because no one challenged him. There was just enough money in the pockets of the trousers Dead End had brought for him to take a cab back to their apartment, though the driver demanded a tip as well. Motormaster told him not to frag off someone capable of twisting his head until he could look down his own spine, and said that was the most helpful tip he would ever get.

He took the elevator up to their floor and headed for the apartment, thankful he still had his key. Before he even got to the door, he heard loud music thudding from within the apartment.

Motormaster felt his core temperature rising. He hadn't expected his team to be disciplined in his absence, but he had a feeling that what he was about to see would be all-out anarchy. Set to music.

He unlocked the door and pushed it open quietly. Though he realized at once that the other Stunticons would not have heard him unless he had thundered through the doorway in alt-mode.

The living-room stank of wet paint. Wildrider stood before the far wall, surrounded by pots dribbling various colors. Some of the paint was smeared on him as well, but most of it was on the wall – forming what looked like a bizarre mural built up around the bullet damage. He had painted a human, doubled up in agony or dead, around each of the bullet holes, which were enhanced in red and black and looked as though they had been made by missile launchers instead. As Motormaster stared in disbelief, Wildrider took a step back, evidently to admire the spectacle he had created, and dabbed on a little more paint.

Drag Strip was sprawled on the couch, watching a television which had not been there the last time Motormaster had seen the apartment. The volume had been pushed up so far that Motormaster felt vibrations crawl through his struts.

_How much did that piece of slag cost?_ he thought. The other Stunticons knew they needed money, knew they might still have to repay the loan shark if Breakdown's program didn't get through to the base in three weeks – but they seemed to have taken advantage of his absence to throw away funds on a television.

And on a small mountain of fast food. Breakdown had his back to the front door and was surrounded by empty pizza boxes, crumpled food wrappers and soda cans. He leaned back on two legs of his chair, staring at the television and exchanging occasional comments – inaudible thanks to the noise – with Drag Strip.

Dead End was curled up in another chair, reading a book. As if he hadn't noticed any of the chaos, Motormaster thought. Or more likely, didn't care.

"Breaks, throw me a soda!" Drag Strip called.

Breakdown flung a can to him and tossed another over his shoulder. Dead End reached up and caught it in mid-air, popping it open without taking his eyes off his book. Motormaster stood in the doorway, trying to decide which of them to thrash first. Drums thudded loudly from the television set.

"Battle scene coming up!" Drag Strip sang out.

"Finally!" Wildrider spun around, sending flecks of paint flying, and saw Motormaster. He dropped the paintbrush with a splat.

Breakdown saw that and looked back over his shoulder. His chair thudded back on to all four legs, and Drag Strip scrambled up.

Motormaster strode into the room, not bothering to look at any of them. He plucked the book from Dead End's hands with one quick movement and tore it down the spine, then threw the two halves to the floor. He trod on them as he made his way to the television set.

"No, don't hurt it!" Wildrider was suddenly between him and the television, his arms spread wide.

"Where the frag did you get this?" Motormaster didn't wait for an answer, but shoved him out of the way, grabbed the power cord and yanked it free of the wall. As Wildrider started up from the floor, he flicked the cord out like a whip. The end of it hit Wildrider across the face with a sharp snap that was all the more audible in the sudden silence, and he fell back down.

That time, he didn't try to get up again, only curled up and kept his hands over his face.

Motormaster turned around. "What are you, on vacation?"

Drag Strip folded his arms. "Well, it's not like we have _jobs_ any more."

Motormaster glared at him, pretended to turn aside and whirled with one arm extended. He wasn't sure if it would work, given that Drag Strip's reflexes had always been better than his, but the back of his hand hit Drag Strip's cheek with a solid _whack_. The sudden activity brought a painful twinge from his damaged side, but Drag Strip was the one who lost his balance, ending up sprawled on the couch. His face was red where Motormaster had struck it, and a thin line of blood trickled from the corner of his mouth.

"Any more smartaft remarks?" Motormaster said. No one spoke or moved. "Good. Clean this mess up."

He started toward the kitchen to pour himself a glass of water, and stepped into an open pizza box. There was an unpleasant squelching sound underfoot.

"I – I'll get that out of the way," Breakdown said and hurried forward. He took a little too much time picking it up, though, so Motormaster shoved him hard. Breakdown tripped and fell flat on his face.

Motormaster wiped his shoe off on the seat of Breakdown's pants and went into the kitchen. There wasn't a single clean glass, so he drank some water out of a cupped hand. He almost wished he was back at the repair facility. The little water he had had seemed to sizzle in his throat as though it had fallen onto white-hot metal.

"Pick all this slag up," he said, looking around at the other Stunticons. None of them, except Dead End, looked back. "Repaint the wall." He pointed at the television. "And if I hear or see that again, I'll use it for target practice."

Dead End glanced down at the two halves of his book, then back at Motormaster. "Are you sure the humans at the repair station didn't want you to stay a few more days?"

Motormaster felt a strut-deep coldness fill him, like liquid nitrogen making its way through his systems. He paced forward slowly. The other Stunticons were equally frozen, and something flickered in the depths of Dead End's eyes. Motormaster stopped when he was within striking distance, just to emphasize the fact that he didn't need to hit Dead End to put him in his place.

"I should have known you couldn't handle things while I was gone," he said softly.

"I didn't want to handle them," Dead End replied.

_No wonder you get along with the rest of these idiots_, Motormaster thought. It was only too clear that his subordinates had enjoyed themselves in his absence, that there had been a genuine camaraderie between them that was no longer in evidence. But that was only because Dead End would never enforce discipline, would never uphold any kind of standards in the team.

No, Motormaster had to do that. He would always have to do that, and would always pay the price for it. The team might need him, but they didn't _want_ him. Not that he gave a slag either way.

"No, of course you didn't," he said, keeping his voice low, conversational. "You didn't want that responsibility. It'd be too much like _work_. This team's future could go to the smelting pools for all you care, as long as you get to lie around and polish yourself."

A cable tightened in Dead End's jaw, but there was no reply. Motormaster continued, as calmly as if he was discussing the weather.

"I'm working towards getting our frames back, but that doesn't matter to you," he said. "Safeguarding our resources, our privacy – none of that's important to you. Your name shouldn't be Dead End. More like Dead Weight."

Dead End's optics were flat and cold – emotionless and giving nothing away. But his throat worked as he swallowed, and Motormaster knew he had won.

"That's right," he said, smiling a little. "Don't say anything. Roll over and take it like you always do."

He turned away from Dead End. Discipline was done and the team had returned to normal, but that left him feeling oddly out-of-place, like a spare wheel. He guessed there was no food for him, since the team had clearly not been expecting his arrival. The living-room still stank of paint, but the atmosphere was now thick with fear and hostility as well. He thought of going to his room instead – but then he would be alone, just as he had been alone at the repair facility.

The repair facility… that reminded him of how Dead End had stayed with him in the place. But when he glanced at Dead End, he got a bitter glare in return. Motormaster sneered back and walked out of the apartment, slamming the door behind him.

It was almost a relief to be out of there, and definitely a relief not to be breathing in the smell of wet paint any longer. But he couldn't just stand in the corridor looking irresolute, so he took the elevator down instead. No money left, which meant there was only one place he could go – the deli. He felt certain Val would give him free coffee…and maybe another one of those chocolate donuts as well.

The window had a "Closed" sign, which Motormaster noticed and ignored. The deli was still lit, which meant someone had to be inside. He thumped on the door and waited impatiently.

After a few moments it was unlocked and Val stood in the doorway. "What do you want?" she said, arms folded.

Motormaster was taken aback, but compared to the effusive welcome he had received from his team, a little standoffishness was nothing. "Coffee, obviously," he said.

Val sighed and held the door open, stepping aside. She locked it again after he was inside, then went to a table covered with papers and sat down before it. Motormaster took a chair on the opposite side of the table, stretched his legs out beneath it and waited expectantly.

"Where's my coffee?" he said.

Val's eyes narrowed. "You really think you can just walk in here and demand—"

"You said I could have coffee on the house whenever I wanted it," Motormaster pointed out. "That was just after I saved your life, in case you've forgotten." He smirked. "Is your life not worth that much coffee?"

Val's mouth closed tightly, and the muscles in her jaws tightened, making him think of Dead End for a moment. But she got up without another word and fixed a cup of coffee the way he liked it, setting it down before him so hard that he was surprised none of it slopped over into his lap.

Though he would have thrown the rest of it in her face if that had happened.

Val sat down again, propping her elbows on the table and leaned forward. "Jess wanted me to tell you you're fired."

"Who's Jess?" Motormaster said, before he remembered. The manager of the 121 club… it felt as though he had worked there years ago. He grinned, pleased that he no longer needed to take slag from humans.

"This isn't funny, Tom!" Val seemed to be growing more and more annoyed. "I asked her to give you that job, and now she says you missed three nights of work in a row."

Motormaster didn't owe her any explanations, but the hot coffee tasted good, and even though she seemed angry with him for some reason, Val was still paying attention to him. There was none of the cold resentful silence that he knew would have filled the apartment if he had remained there.

"Well, yeah," he said. "They wouldn't let me leave that place. Get me a donut."

"What place?" Val said.

"The repair facility." Motormaster gestured at the glass display case beneath the counter. "Donut."

"The what?"

Motormaster tried to remember the human term for the place. "The hospital. Are you going to get me a donut or do I have to break that case open and get it myself?"

"Fine," Val said, and got up so abruptly that she knocked a pen to the floor. She didn't seem to notice, and kept giving him incredulous looks as she fumbled beneath the counter, put donuts on a plate and carried them out.

"You were in hospital?" she said when she sat down. "What happened? Was it the loan shark you borrowed money from?"

Motormaster nodded with his mouth full, and swallowed. "One of his troops stabbed me."

Val's eyes grew wide. "Where?"

"In this warehouse the slagger was using as a—"

"No, I meant where on your body?"

"Oh." Motormaster wiped his fingers on a paper napkin and pulled up his T-shirt. Val stared at the damage he had taken, her mouth falling open, and although he didn't care what any human thought – if they thought at all – Motormaster couldn't help feeling pleased by her reaction. It was obvious she was impressed by his battle scar.

"Good God," she said. "You could have died."

Motormaster chuckled contemptuously. "The slag I would. The blade was only about this big." He held up a finger and thumb to demonstrate. "You should have seen the size of my—" He stopped, realizing that the next word out of his mouth would have been "sword".

Val blinked. "Your… what?"

"Nothing." Motormaster finished his coffee and made a mental note not to brag again.

Val leaned back in her chair, frowning. "But how are you going to repay the money?" she said. "Now that you don't even have a job any more?"

Motormaster shrugged. "I bought us three weeks. That's more than enough time for me to recover, even if my plan doesn't work." Val still looked skeptical, so he added, "Three weeks without interest."

"And what's your plan?"

Motormaster thought of the Decepticon base, of the security of the chain of command he had known all his life, of the size and power he had once taken for granted. "To get back everything we've lost."

Val got up and began to clear the table. "Does 'we' mean you and your roommates?"

Motormaster nodded. They probably wouldn't have cared if he had deactivated in the human repair bay, but they still needed him – and he would have liked to see them present themselves to Megatron without him.

Val tucked her papers into a bag, hooked the strap of the bag over one broad shoulder and pushed her chair close against the table. Motormaster realized that she was leaving – and probably wanted him to leave too. He stood up, trying to hide his uncertainty. He didn't want to go back to the base, and yet what else he was supposed to do?

"Stop," he said, and Val paused halfway to the front door, turning to look at him. "You're staying here."

"Is something wrong?" Her eyes widened, and she glanced at the large window. "That loan shark's thugs didn't follow you here, did they?"

"Don't be stupid. If I'd caught anyone tailing me I'd run them over. And if there was any danger I sure as slag wouldn't be hiding in here.'

Val frowned. "Well, then… why should I stay here?"

Motormaster tried to think of a good reason. "I want some more coffee."

She stared at him and Motormaster returned the look, waiting to see if she would become defiant. None of the Stunticons had been able to meet his gaze for long – except for Dead End, on occasion, and that was usually because he didn't care whether he was slagged or not. But after a moment Val simply turned and went back behind the counter. Silently, she fixed another cup the way he liked it and handed it to him, then stepped back, hands at her sides as if she were awaiting further orders.

Motormaster felt uncomfortable for the first time. He could hardly ask for more coffee, and he had a feeling that Val would respond the same way to a demand for food. It didn't exactly solve the main problem either, and the silence stretched on.

Finally he couldn't take it any longer. _If she's not going to speak to me, I might as well be back h… back at our temporary base. _Even that would be better than just standing there looking foolish and holding a cup of coffee that he didn't want to drink.

"Fine," he said, not bothering to keep the anger out of his voice. "_I'll_ leave." He started for the door.

"Just a second," Val said. "What was all that about?"

Motormaster gave her a cold look but didn't reply. He reached the door and unlocked it one-handed.

"You didn't want coffee," Val said. "What did you want?" She hesitated. "If you really need to stay here for some reason, just tell me what's wrong. You didn't get evicted, did you?"

"No," Motormaster said. _Though we probably will be when the landlord sees what that idiot Wildrider did to the wall._

Val put a hand on the door as if to hold it closed – not that that could have ever have stopped him. "Is there a problem at home?" she said, looking closely at him.

Motormaster ground his teeth. Not many Decepticons would have dared to pry into what went on in his base, so to have a human do so strained his control to the breaking-point. The proper conduct of any human – when facing a Decepticon – was to obey orders and show the utmost respect, not ask questions as if the two of them were equals.

Part of him wanted to throw Val's foolish human concern back in her face, and tell her it was none of her business. But another part told him that it was still concern, even if it came from an organic weakling. When he had been hungry and thirsty on his first night as a human, he had eaten human food and drunk water. He supposed bitterly that this was not so different.

He still wasn't going to tell her what an unbelievable mess his team had made of the place, though. What happened in their base stayed within their base.

"It's just my roommates," he said, trying to speak casually as he looked away from her. He felt his mouth twist. "I can't rely on them to do anything by themselves."

"Oh," Val said. "I can see why you're so anxious to get back home."

Motormaster's head snapped around. For a moment he was so angry he couldn't even reply, and Val took a quick step back, raising one hand.

"Sorry," she said. "I shouldn't have said that – you're having a rough enough day as it is."

Motormaster glared at her, but somehow what she had just said felt like a coolant on his overstressed systems, and he began to feel a little calmer. He shifted his coffee to his left hand.

"Hypothetical question," Val said. "If you could ditch your roommates and pick completely new ones, would you do it?"

The thought had never occurred to Motormaster. They were a gestalt and had always been one, so to even imagine himself without the other Stunticons was something he had never done. Replacing them with other mechs, different ones, was an even more foreign idea.

He couldn't even picture that, so instead he thought of removing all the problems his subordinates had, all the qualities that made them fail, all the flaws that made them unworthy in Megatron's eyes. It was, he thought, like burning away the slag and leaving only the purest molten steel behind.

He thought of replacing Dead End with someone who would never ask the purpose of an order, or gloomily predict their certain deaths, or waste time polishing himself. He mentally erased Breakdown's ridiculous paranoia and nervousness, then took away the even more ridiculous habit of always trying to use big words and never quite getting them right.

Wildrider was easy to change, at least in Motormaster's head – without his insanity, most of his other stupid habits would be gone too. No more hyperactive fits or befriending humans, no more fear of silence or foolishness like painting the walls. And as for Drag Strip, the team could only benefit from a Stunticon who wasn't so obsessed with winning, not to mention arrogant – as if he had anything to be proud of! – yet insecure underneath.

The only problem was that once he had finished, he wasn't quite sure what was left behind. A Dead End who never complained or questioned orders or polished himself would be little more than an empty shell… more of a drone than the mech Motormaster was used to. The same went for all the others. He tried to think what his improved versions of Drag Strip and Wildrider and Breakdown would do when they weren't on duty, but all he could see were inert frames waiting for his orders.

Somehow that was even more disturbing than their current condition.

He looked back at Val. "Guess I wouldn't," he said with an effort. Worthless morons though they could be, he was too used to them – as they were. Even if he had the ability to reprogram them to be normal, he supposed reluctantly that he wouldn't do it.

It would have been nice if they felt the same way about him, but he could only guess what kind of leader they would have picked instead – someone who allowed them to run riot and do as they pleased. He wondered what kind of leader Dead End might respect, or Drag Strip might admire, then dismissed that as a useless line of speculation.

Val raised a brow. "Think you could go back home and put up with them now?"

Motormaster nodded. They were his team; he couldn't have stayed away from them for long no matter what condition he was in.

"You can have this back." He handed Val the coffee.

"Uh, thanks." She took it from him, her fingers brushing against his. "You know something?"

"What?" Motormaster said.

"I really like your eyes." She smiled. "Violet. They're your best feature."

Motormaster had no idea how to reply to that. The color of his optics hadn't changed, so he supposed they _were_ his best feature, but she was leaning slightly closer as if expecting more than agreement.

"Yours are very… brown," he said finally.

Val chuckled softly and shook her head. "You take care, okay?" she said, and put a hand on his forearm as if to brace herself. Before Motormaster could ask her what she was doing, she covered his mouth with hers.

He went very still. What the frag _was_ this? The only humans who had dared to touch him – outside of a fight, at least – were the staff of the repair bay, but whatever Val was doing didn't feel the same. It was equally strange, but not as repulsive.

He had clamped his mouth shut instinctively, and her lips felt warm and soft where they pressed against his. Suddenly she drew back minutely – raising Motormaster's hopes; perhaps this unsettling, bizarre and above all human ritual was over? – and pressed the ball of her thumb against his chin, just below his lower lip.

His mouth opened, and her tongue flicked inside.

Motormaster's body jolted with a response he hadn't expected and couldn't control. He was vaguely aware of leaning forward to deepen the contact and making a low rough sound in his throat, but if the entire Decepticon Army had been watching him from the window, he didn't think he would have noticed.

After a moment more, thought, Val disengaged herself and stepped away. She looked up at him, a furrow between her brows.

"Didn't you like that?" she said.

_Fragging Primus, she's doing it again!_ Motormaster had never before met anyone who could ask so many awkward questions, and he couldn't even fall back on his default response of nodding when a human said something stupid. He stood there silently, wondering what to do next. An abrupt dash out of the place would make him look weak.

"Tom?" Val said. "You have done this before, right?"

"Of course not!" Motormaster said indignantly. Did she think he normally had squishies' wet, germy tongues in his mouth?

Val's jaw dropped open. "I don't believe it… although that _would_ explain a lot." She rubbed the back of her neck and cleared her throat.

Motormaster seized the moment. "I have to go," he said, and opened the door. He slipped out and shut it firmly behind him before Val could say anything else.

He wanted to head back to the base at speed, but he forced himself to walk more slowly; the last thing he needed was for the rest of the Stunticons to see him so… unsettled. The cool air felt good, and his ventilations gradually began to return to normal.

Across the street, one of the windows in their building flew up. Motormaster registered the abrupt movement in his peripheral vision, but when he heard a shout of "_Boss!_" he stopped, staring up at the apartment block. Wildrider was leaning out of the window, both hands cupped around his mouth.

"Get back here!" he yelled. "We got through!"


	33. Breaker OneNine

_Chapter summary : The Stunticons make contact with the Nemesis, and loan sharks become the least of their problems._

_Authors' note : We're thinking of going on hiatus again to catch up on our writing, but we'd like to hear from our readers - will another hiatus make you lose interest in the story, or would you be okay with waiting a few extra weeks for the next update?_

* * *

**Chapter 33 : Breaker One-Nine**

Breakdown carefully applied a final Band-Aid to the welt on Wildrider's face, then glanced at Drag Strip. "What are you doing?"

Drag Strip put a finger to his lips. The undamaged side of his face was pressed against the front door. "Doesn't sound like he's lurking outside," he whispered, and edged the door open cautiously, ducking at once as if to avoid a roundhouse punch from outside. "Nope," he said, and straightened up.

"Good," Breakdown said. "Then could you take the TV back into your room?" He had asked Dead End to help him with that already, but Dead End was busy trying to tape the two halves of his book back together and seemed to have sunk into one of those moods where he ignored them all.

"My face hurts," Drag Strip said.

Breakdown sighed, pushing his hair back from his forehead. He wanted to sit down, but after being used as a doormat by Motormaster, he needed a clean pair of pants first – and he remembered too late that they hadn't done any laundry recently. As for Drag Strip, his reply was a _non sequin_ if Breakdown had ever heard one, but he knew Drag Strip hated getting hit in the face. He'd probably complain about it for some time.

"All right, then, just keep an eye out for him," he said. "Wildrider, are you okay? Help me with the TV."

Wildrider nodded, but didn't say anything – and he looked so downcast that Breakdown started to worry. Once they had carried the TV back into Wildrider's room and plugged it in, Breakdown pushed the power button and was relieved when the movie came back on.

"Here, you can keep watching this," he said.

Wildrider slumped down on the bed, resting his elbows on his knees. "I worked really hard on that wall," he said. "If anyone else'd broken in, they'd have been scared strutless."

Breakdown nearly sat down beside him, but caught himself just in time. He stripped off his pants, found a clean pair of Drag Strip's and put those on instead, surprised by how tight they were. He sat down gingerly beside Wildrider, feeling the pants strain at the seams as he did so.

"Yeah, they would've been." He pressed one shoulder lightly against Wildrider's, the way they would have bumped shoulder-tires if they had had their real frames back. "You're really talented. Maybe you just need something else to paint."

"Like what?" Wildrider said listlessly.

Breakdown tried to think. He really didn't want Wildrider splattering paint all over _his_ room – which was likely to make Dead End even more miserable than he was already – but what else…

He got up and hurried into the living-room – as fast as he could hurry in pants that seemed to be welded on – and began to search through the trash on the floor.

"He's going to the deli," Drag Strip reported from the window. "Figures. He got all revved up slapping us around and now he's going to burn it off."

"Better her than us." Breakdown found the magazine he was looking for and took it back to Wildrider.

"Look at this," he said. "There's a competition for the best T-shirt design featuring Cybertronians. You've got enough paint left, why don't you come up with something?"

Wildrider took the magazine and began to read, looking a little more animated as he did so. Breakdown sighed with relief and tottered back into the living-room.

"Help me clean up," he said to Drag Strip.

"Hey, are those my pants?"

Breakdown gave up on him and turned to Dead End. The pants were threatening to give way at the seams to such an alarming degree that they would probably become Drag Strip's skirt before the night was out.

"Do you want to go watch TV with Wildrider or help me clean up?" he said.

Dead End didn't respond, but Wildrider called out from inside. "You should watch this, guys! There's gonna be a race!"

Breakdown wondered how there could be a race when the humans in the film didn't have cars – what were they planning to do, run? – but when he abandoned the solo cleanup effort and followed the other Stunticons, he soon realized how the humans planned to compete. "Doesn't look like it'll be very fast," he said as he leaned against the doorframe.

"Well, yeah, but humans back then couldn't do any better," Drag Strip said, making himself comfortable on the bed. "The film is set about a million years in the past."

"And did you see the modifications on that guy's wheels?" Wildrider pointed at the screen.

Drag Strip leaned forward to look, and Breakdown found himself doing the same. He had to admit, those weren't bad for a human invention, and Drag Strip declared he would have Hook make similar changes to his hubcaps as soon as they had their old frames back. "Bet that human'll win," he said as he settled back on the bed.

"We still need to clean up," Breakdown said, but no one was listening, and he couldn't help being fascinated by the race. He edged further into the room, watching closely. Drag Strip and Wildrider were completely caught up in the action, cheering as competitor after competitor was eliminated - or in some cases, deactivated.

And then, over the roars, screams and pounding of horses' hooves, Breakdown thought he heard a faint sound. He stepped back and turned his head, frowning.

It was a low persistent beep coming from the computer.

_My program!_ Breakdown spun around so fast that he clipped his shoulder on the doorframe. Thankfully it was the undamaged shoulder, but he didn't think he would have felt anything either way. The program was supposed to beep when it got through to the base.

For once even the pants didn't impede his mobility and he was at the computer in the next moment, his fuel pump hammering. Across the screen, two words blinked on and off.

_CONTACT ESTABLISHED_

Breakdown's mouth went dry. He had made contact with the base. _He had done it._

He was suddenly aware of silence in the apartment other than the persistent beeping – which didn't quite drown out the audible ventilations of the other Stunticons gathered around him and staring intently at the screen.

Three of the other Stunticons, anyway.

"Drag Strip," he said, not daring to look away from the screen. "Go find him. Hurry."

"Why do I have to—"

"Because you, as you keep telling us, are the fastest," Dead End said suddenly, startling them all, and something in his tone made Drag Strip head for the door. He pulled it open.

"Hey, don't forget your keys," Wildrider said, and went over to the window where Drag Strip had left them lying on the sill. He picked them up and then dropped them again with an excited yell that made Breakdown start.

"What the frag?" Drag Strip said.

"It's the boss!" Wildrider fumbled unsuccessfully with the window, then reached for the nearest chair. Drag Strip got to him first, though, and managed to open the window before Wildrider could break it. Wildrider shoved it up and leaned so far out Breakdown was half afraid he would topple out completely.

"Boss!" he yelled at the top of his voice. "Get back here! We got through!"

Drag Strip hauled Wildrider back before he could say anything else, and slammed the window back down. Breathing a little more easily, Breakdown turned back to the screen. The computer was still beeping, and he deactivated the program to make it stop.

The screen went blank except for a prompt.

_**COMMANDSTA#3:** Identify yourself._

Breakdown swallowed. He had never seen any transmissions from "COMMANDSTA#3" before, but that wasn't surprising. Every communication he had previously sent the _Nemesis_ had been made through either his internal comm radio or one of the far more advanced Decepticon computers, both of which transmitted visual feeds as well. He was profoundly grateful that their computer couldn't do the same… but that also meant he didn't know to whom he was speaking.

_**COMMANDSTA#3**: Identify yourself._

"Command station three," Dead End murmured, leaning over his shoulder. "Not Soundwave, then – he'd be at the primary communications terminal."

Before Breakdown could reply, they heard heavy footsteps pounding up the staircase. Thankfully the door was already open, otherwise Breakdown suspected Motormaster might simply have crashed right through it. He strode to the computer, breathing hard, sweat gleaming on his skin. His eyes were a deeper shade of purple than his windows had ever been.

Breakdown flinched back a little out of pure instinct, but Motormaster didn't seem to notice him. His attention was fixed on the screen.

_**COMMANDSTA#3**: Repeat, identify yourself._

"All right," Motormaster said after a moment. "Tell him who you are and that it's a distress comm. Don't say anything else."

Breakdown nodded. His fingers flickered over the keyboard, entering his reply.

_**DSCS II**: This is Breakdown of the Stunticons. This is a distress call. We request assistance._

_**COMMANDSTA#3**: Where are you?_

Breakdown hesitated, glancing at Motormaster, then typed again.

_**DSCS II**: We request assistance._

_**COMMANDSTA#3**: Repeat, where are you?_

Motormaster's eyes narrowed. "Find out who it is."

_**DSCS II:** Who is this?_

_**COMMANDSTA#3:** What is the nature of your distress?_

Motormaster's teeth came together. "Tell him you want to talk to Megatron."

_**DSCS II:** Transfer us to Megatron._

_**COMMANDSTA#3:** Megatron is unavailable. Transmit your coordinates._

"Not a fragging chance," Motormaster said. "Ask for Soundwave."

_**DSCS II:** Transfer us to Soundwave._

_**COMMANDSTA#3:** Soundwave has no interest in speaking to deserters._

"Deserters?" Motormaster had been leaning over with one hand braced on the table, and his nails dug into the wood so hard that his fingers went pale to the knuckle. When he straightened up, Breakdown saw small deep arcs bitten into the surface of the table. "Tell that slagger this is Motormaster, so he'd better stop wasting my time and patch us through to Megatron _now!_"

_But will he do it?_ Breakdown thought. They had no leverage over whoever was on the other side, even if it was Motormaster giving the orders. And for some reason, it seemed whoever was at Command Station 3 didn't want them to contact Megatron.

A new message appeared on the screen.

_**COMMANDSTA#3:** Megatron will allow you an opportunity to present yourselves before him and explain your actions._

"Good," Motormaster said.

_**COMMANDSTA#3:** After you transmit the coordinates of your location._

"Not good," Dead End said.

"Get out of that chair," Motormaster said, and Breakdown slipped out of it just in time. Motormaster grabbed the back of the chair, took his place, and punched in a rapid reply without even looking at the keyboard. His eyes were riveted like laserbeams on the screen.

_**DSCS II:** Is this Strscream?_

"Uh, boss?" Wildrider said, leaning closer. "I don't think that's how you spell Starscream."

Motormaster backhanded him without even looking. Wildrider stumbled back, tripped over an empty pizza box and sat down hard on the floor. Motormaster jabbed furiously at the backspace key, corrected his mistake and continued.

_**DSCS II:** Is this Starscream?_

_**COMMANDSTA#3:** No._

_**DSCS II:** Then who the frag are you?_

_**COMMANDSTA#3:** If you are loyal Decepticons rather than traitors, transmit your coordinates._

_**DSCS II:** The only triator here is the one refusing to—_

"It's spelled t-r-a-i-t-o-r," Dead End said from a safe distance.

"Shut up. If I let you do the typing we'll be here all night."

_**DSCS II:** The only traitor around here is the one refusing to put our comm through to our leader._

_**COMMANDSTA#3:** Why aren't you contacting him yourself?_

_**COMMANDSTA#3:** Repeat, why aren't you contacting him yourself?_

_**COMMANDSTA#3:** If all five of you are damaged and require assistance, we will send a relief unit._

_**DSCS II:** Shove your relief unit up your tailpipe. You get nothing from us till we speak to Megatron!_

_**COMMANDSTA#3:** Megatron has no interest in dealing with you. He knows that you damaged his matter-energy convertor._

_**DSCS II:** How can he be sure the Autobots didn't do it? Or the Combaticons? Now there's a slagload of traitors for you._

_**COMMANDSTA#3:** The Autobots never got near the machine, and we're loyal now._

Breakdown felt his internal components tie themselves into a cold tight knot. "_We're_ loyal…?"

Drag Strip, just behind him, drew in a sharp breath. "It's one of the Combaticons!"

Wildrider was saying something, but Breakdown barely heard. Burned into his memory was the day they had first become humans, and how they had fled from the Combaticons who might have killed them otherwise. Even though he hadn't revealed their location, he felt chilled down to his struts, as if the walls of their base had been turned to glass and he was being watched from all sides.

Even though he hadn't revealed their location…

He started up, and Motormaster turned at the abrupt movement. "They could be tracing the signal!"

Motormaster's face was devoid of any expression, wiped blank. "That's why they're refusing to tell us anything but they keep talking." He spun around. "Cut the power!"

Both Drag Strip and Wildrider leaped forward, but Dead End had been slouching at the hallway entrance with one shoulder propped against the wall, and that meant he was closest to the socket. He lifted a foot, hooked the toe of his shoe around the power cord and gave it a hard yank. The plug snapped free of the wall, and the computer screen went blank for the first time since they had bought it.

"So much for that plan," Dead End said dryly.

Breakdown glanced at the others, then made his way to the couch. He sat down carefully, trying not to make any sound at all, and wrapped his arms around his midsection. _Just five minutes_, he thought. _Just five minutes and I'll be ready to… to do whatever we need to do next._

"Did they have enough time to trace us?" Motormaster said finally.

Breakdown managed a shrug. "I can't tell. If they did, we'll find out soon enough."

"Could we try again later?" Drag Strip said. "Whoever it was, their shift will end soon enough."  
"And if they're replaced by another Combaticon?" Dead End said. "Or Starscream?"

"Keep that computer off," Motormaster said as he got up from the chair. He went to his room and shut the door. For several minutes no one moved, then Wildrider plopped down next to Breakdown. He wriggled around until he was lying upside-down with his head hanging over the edge, his feet propped up on the back of the couch.

"Which one of 'em do you think it was?" he said.

"Huh?" Breakdown said.

"The Combaticon we talked to." Wildrider frowned at the ceiling. "Couldn't have been Bruticus…"

* * *

_Authors' note : Also, Internet cookies to whoever guesses which movie they were watching!_


	34. Interlude II

_Authors' note : Last chapter before "Crash Course" goes on hiatus for two months, so we hope you enjoy it! And we look forward to seeing you all again when we return with the rest of the story. _

_(Also, yes, the movie was _Ben-Hur!)

_Chapter summary : The Combaticons make plans to deal with their greatest rivals. _

* * *

**Interlude II**

Vortex logged the transmission – which was mandatory – and assigned it the lowest priority possible. That was all he could do to delay its discovery.

That, and maintaining his usual demeanor, which wasn't difficult. He hadn't learned self-control as an interrogator; he'd been sparked with it. And because everything from his own emotions to the gestalt bond was filtered through that cold combination of personality and training, he knew that even Soundwave – stationed on the other side of the command room – was unaware of what had just transpired.

Vortex continued with his shift, working calmly. Brawl might have radioed Onslaught immediately to tell him what had happened. Swindle would have waited, but would have been unable to control the sudden pulse of every acquisitive circuit in his frame as he wondered what he could extort from the Stunticons in exchange for his help. And Soundwave might have sensed that.

But Vortex felt… nothing. The events of the past few minutes were sealed away in a mental compartment, and he went about his duty with his usual methodical precision. He had that much in common with Blast-Off – not that the aloof orbital sniper would ever admit it.

When his shift ended, Vortex uploaded all the files he had worked on to the mainframe, checked the roster to make sure he was off-duty for the next few joors, and then logged off. Soundwave didn't even look up as he left, and Dirge was coming in to take his place. Routine as usual. He collected his ration and went to Onslaught's quarters.

The door slid open for him and Vortex stepped inside. He gave Onslaught a nod of acknowledgement, smiling behind his battlemask when Onslaught pushed a chair forward wordlessly. Onslaught knew he would never have dropped by simply to chat.

"When's Blast-Off coming back?" he said as he made himself comfortable. He opened a private Combaticon frequency and said, "_The Stunticons tried to contact the base during my shift_."

"He's on his way," Onslaught said with no change in tone. "_Tried?"_

"Good, because when he's back I have an idea for a new assignment." _"Commed the mainframe – and they must've tried several times, because the computer redirected the transmission to me. Text only, no voice, no image."_

"I think we've discussed this, Vortex." Onslaught picked up the datapad he had been reading and focused on that again. "You don't give yourself assignments. That's my job." Over the Combaticon frequency, he asked, _"What did they want?"_

"But you'll like this one. Transfer Blast-Off and me to Cybertron." _"To speak to Megatron."_

"And deprive the rest of us of your charming company?" _"And yet they didn't comm him directly? Interesting. Did you trace the transmission?"_

Vortex shrugged. "Even if we capture any Autobots here on Earth, there isn't a lot of information I can get from them that we don't already know. But from what I've heard, Shockwave's been having some… difficulties dealing with Autobots over there."

If he were honest, Vortex would have admitted that he preferred it on Earth. He would have to be reformatted to operate on Cybertron without standing out thanks to his alt-mode, and he was utterly indifferent to both Shockwave and the future of the Decepticon Empire. But none of this little charade had anything to do with honesty.

"_I did," _he replied. _"It came from one of the human military communications satellites – DSCS II-15. I was able to trace the signal to this region." _He transmitted a map of the North American continent with a red circle at a point near the south-western coast, a city in California._ "They cut it before I could track it any further."_

"_A human satellite?" _Onslaught replied, and Vortex could tell what he was thinking even without training or a gestalt bond. Could the Stunticons have been so damaged that they didn't even have functional comms? It was a possibility, but Vortex still had no idea what could have happened to them in the few minutes that he, Swindle and Brawl had been away from the matter-energy convertor. Even a swift and ferocious attack from the Autobots – Vortex nearly snickered at the thought – could not have incapacitated the Stunticons without leaving some evidence behind.

"And why should Blast-Off accompany you to Cybertron?" Onslaught said. _"Swindle has been keeping a close optic on the human media for any sightings or reports of the Stunticons since they disappeared. I'll tell him to watch for any news in that particular area, but so far there's been nothing."_

"No, no. Blast-Off is how I get to Cybertron. I prefer to take the scenic route." Vortex reclined comfortably in the chair and finished off his cube. _"They're doing more than just laying low. They're hiding something... something about themselves."_

"I see," Onslaught replied. "_Damage. Significant damage._"

"_Yes_," Vortex said softly. And what else about the Stunticons might be damaged along with their comms? Forcefields? Weapons systems?

The frequency went silent except for the occasional faint crackle of static. It sounded, Vortex thought, like a spark snapping to life in a void and then being extinguished just as fast.

He didn't mind waiting while Onslaught considered the problem, because his own processors hummed away just as busily, though not always on the same topic. As far as he was concerned, tracking down the Stunticons was up to Onslaught and Swindle, and maybe Blast-Off as well, assuming he deigned to lend them his assistance.

What happened to the Stunticons _after_ they found them, though… that was Vortex's specialty.

_And Brawl can have the leftovers,_ he thought. Different though the Combaticons were in terms of methods and personality, they were fiercely united when it came to their team's past – and its future. They had all agreed with Onslaught's decision to make the Combaticons an independent mercenary force rather than a mere cog in the Decepticon machine. They had all resented the price they'd paid for that choice, the imprisonment which had kept them in a box for seventy thousand vorn. They despised Starscream for rebuilding them only to force them to fight his battles for him, and despised Megatron even more for reprogramming them to ensure their loyalty.

But their hatred for the Stunticons ran far deeper. It was one thing to be defeated by a high-ranking Decepticon commander, someone with millions of years of experience in leadership and warfare. It was another thing altogether to fall to a sneak attack from a pack of psychotic upstarts fresh off the assembly line. That humiliation could never be forgotten – only repaid.

Vortex thought that if the Combaticons were at a disadvantage because they'd spent a significant portion of their existences as little more than personality components without frames, the Stunticons had the opposite problem; they were nothing more than glorified tin cans with grossly overpowered defense systems, empty shells with little of worth inside. He doubted they even knew what they were fighting for.

Whereas the Combaticons knew exactly what they wanted most: to be rid of their reprogramming, to escape Megatron's iron rule and have the freedom to choose their own futures – a choice they'd never had in the past. But Vortex thought that for the time being, they would settle for some well-deserved retaliation. If not for the Stunticons, they wouldn't have been banished by Megatron in the first place, would not have set out for revenge only to end up defeated and reprogrammed.

If the Stunticons had not interfered, they could have been free.

The radio crackled, breaking into Vortex's thoughts. _"We'll find them,"_ Onslaught said.

Vortex felt the certainty in their link, the conviction that held their team together. _"And when we do?"_

"_They're all yours."_


	35. Alternate Route

_Chapter summary: When their first attempt to contact the Nemesis fails, the Stunticons are forced to resort to Plan B. _

– _anon_decepticon and QoS/mdperera_

_Thanks also to Kookaburra 1701 for her support and input, and to all our readers!_

_Hello everyone, and welcome back! It's been an eventful hiatus – QoS has a brand-new book on the fire, and A_D got plagiarized – but now the Stunticons are back with a nice long chapter for you to sink your teeth into (including a sneaky little G1 shoutout – see if you can spot it!) Enjoy!_

* * *

**Chapter 35 – Alternate Route**

Dead End sighed, dropping his ruined book in the trash. He'd been trying to salvage it with tape, but it was obviously beyond repair. Merely the latest in a long list of possessions Motormaster had seen fit to destroy.

The other Stunticons – minus Motormaster – were still arguing. "It doesn't matter which Combaticon it was," Breakdown was saying. "They could be on their way here to kill us _right now!_"

Wildrider frowned, twisting around on the couch to look at him. "Okay…but how will they know we're us?"

"What do you mean, how will they know? We _told_ them who we were!"

"Yeah, but we didn't tell them we're humans now," Wildrider said. "Which means –"

"– which means they haven't got a chance in the Pit of actually finding us," Drag Strip concluded for him. "They wouldn't recognize us if they were staring right at us. So what if they traced our signal? They're not going to come looking for us here. It's not big enough to hide our alt modes."

Wildrider nodded. "And if we see a bunch of military vehicles driving down the street, we'll just make a run for it."

"Okay," Breakdown conceded. "I guess we don't have to abandon the base just yet. But we need to do _something_. What are our options?"

"Death, slow death, and slow excruciating death," Dead End replied.

Breakdown shot him a glare, and then continued as if he hadn't spoken. "Contacting the base with the computer didn't work because we couldn't see who we were talking to. We need to find a way to reach Megatron directly…or at least someone he trusts. Someone _we_ can trust. Like Soundwave, or maybe one of the Constructicons."

Wildrider pursed his lips and stared up at the ceiling. "Too bad we can't get Megatron to come to us."

"Yes, because having _him_ squash us would be so much better than letting the Combaticons do it," he said.

"No, he's right," Breakdown said. "Face-to-face is the only way to be sure. If I can hack into the _Nemesis_ again, I could find out when and where the next energon raid is –"

"It won't work," Dead End said. "First of all, we don't have time. The loan shark comes to collect in two weeks, and with our luck, the security codes will have changed by now. Second, interfering with a raid will probably get us killed. When Megatron wants energon, he sends out the heavy artillery, and I don't think I need to remind you who _that's_ likely to be. Third, given the overall size of this planet the odds the next raid will even be in the same hemisphere, let alone the same continent, are slim to none."

Breakdown opened his mouth to reply, but by the time Dead End had finished ticking points off on his fingers, he'd closed it again. For a long moment they sat in silence, until Breakdown broke it again.

"What if it wasn't a raid?" he asked. "What if instead of going to them, we figured out a way to trick Megatron into coming to us?"

"Sounds suicidal to me," Dead End replied. "In addition to being known for his temper, Megatron _is_ the heavy artillery."

Drag Strip nodded. "And he doesn't give a frag about humans. All he cares about is energon and conquest. How are we supposed to get his attention?"

Wildrider sat up. "We could build a giant robot."

"Why not just paint a huge sign that says, 'Megatron, look here'?" Drag Strip retorted.

"Hey, yeah! I've still got some paint left –"

Dead End sighed, lowering his face to his palm.

"I was thinking of something more subtle," Breakdown said. "Something Megatron will want to investigate quietly, without attracting a lot of attention."

"Oh, I get it," Drag Strip said. "If he's expecting a fight, he'll send out the big guns, but if he's trying to be sneaky…"

"…he'll order Soundwave to send one of his cassettes," Dead End finished for him. "One of his _human-sized_ cassettes."

"And _they_ can't step on us," Wildrider said. "Breaks, you're a genius! So how do we get them to come here?"

Breakdown grinned, for once not seeming to mind all their attention focused on him. "Soundwave's job is gathering intelligence, right? He monitors the humans' communications. So suppose one day he hears a message being transmitted over the human airwaves…in _Cybertronian_."

"Saying what?" Dead End asked.

"Soundwave, look here," Wildrider said.

"Oh, ha ha." Drag Strip glared at them both.

"It doesn't say anything," Breakdown said. "It's just gibberish. But it _looks_ like a code. Soundwave will try to crack it – and when he can't, he'll try to figure out where the signal is going."

"Wait, hang on," Drag Strip said. "A minute ago you were freaking out over the Combaticons trying to trace our signal, and now you want _Soundwave_ to do the same thing?"

"It's _not_ the same thing," Breakdown said, looking annoyed. "Last time I hacked into a satellite to send a signal to the Nemesis. This time, I'll be programming the satellite to send a signal somewhere else – someplace nearby. We can't wait around outside a _satellite_ for Soundwave and his cassettes to show up – it's in _space_."

Drag Strip thought that over for a moment, frowning. "I still don't get how that's any different."

"Something about space being a cold, airless void, perhaps?" Dead End said.

Drag Strip shot him a look. "Shut up, you know what I meant."

Breakdown made an exasperated noise. "Never mind. I just have to find a place nearby with a communications replay strong enough to receive the signal. Someplace where we can watch and wait for Soundwave to show up without calling attention to ourselves."

Dead End raised his head slowly, hearing the faded echo of half-remembered words. _"…wiz kid at my school…built this huge transmitter…"_

"I think I know a place," he said.

* * *

Having to stand watch outside the building that housed the receiver wasn't the worst duty he'd ever been assigned, but under the circumstances Dead End felt it ranked a close second. The sky had opened up shortly after he'd arrived to relive Drag Strip, and the rain had been pelting down nonstop ever since.

Which was how he'd ended up here, huddled in the shadow of a stone lion, his shoulders hunched against the gusting wind. He was hungry, cold, and soaked to the skin. He'd been there for hours, staring through the curtain of rain at a building too nondescript to ever warrant such attention.

When he'd come to scout the area with Breakdown two days ago, the campus had been a veritable beehive of activity, but today - thanks to the weather - it was all but deserted. The handful of humans who had passed him were too preoccupied with escaping the rain to spare him a second glance, let alone bother to speak to him.

"It's you!"

Or at least _most_ of them were. Shaking the water out of his eyes, Dead End looked up.

The human Trevor was wearing his usual black raincoat – which for once seemed appropriate – and carrying his usual bag full of books, but today he'd added a large black umbrella in deference to the weather. Dead End eyed it covetously. If he asked, would Trevor give it to him? After all, the human already had a raincoat.

While he was pondering that, Trevor seemed to make a few observations of his own, glancing from Dead End to the science building and back again. "You're here because of that transmitter, aren't you?" His eyes were bright with excitement. "The one I told you about!"

"No, I'm here to…" _Quick, think of an excuse!_ "…stand here." _Brilliant._

Trevor grinned. "What, in the pouring rain?"

"Yes."

"With no umbrella?" Trevor twirled his playfully.

Dead End sighed. "And no coffee, yes."

"Oh." Trevor's teasing expression shifted to one of sympathy. He glanced at his watch. "The dining hall's closed by now, but I know another place we can go. It's not far."

Dead End imagined wrapping his freezing fingers around a warm cup, letting the steam bathe his face, taking that first sip, feeling the hot liquid spread over his tongue…

…then he thought about what Motormaster would do if he learned he'd abandoned his post for _coffee_.

"I can't." He tugged his sopping coat more tightly around his shoulders. "I have to stay here."

Trevor frowned, glancing back over his shoulder at the science building. "What, because of the transmitter?"

"Receiver," Dead End corrected him absently. "And yes."

For a long moment Trevor didn't reply, only stood there fidgeting with his umbrella. "Well…do you have to stay _right _here? I mean, in this spot _exactly_?"

Dead End arched a brow. "What do you mean?"

Trevor ducked his head, his cheeks flushing. "Well, it's just…my dorm faces the science building. You can see it from the windows in my room."

Dead End studied Trevor's expression carefully, trying to gauge his intent. The human's statement had _sounded_ like an invitation. "Are you proposing that I return with you to your quarters?"

Trevor's blush deepened. "Well….yeah," he said, avoiding Dead End's gaze. "Beats standing around in the rain, right? You could get dried off and…and I have coffee. I mean, I could make some."

The prospect of warmth and shelter from the rain was tempting enough; the promise that he could have _both_ without abandoning his post _plus coffee_ made the offer all but irresistible. Dead End glanced around uncertainly, half-expecting to find Motormaster glowering back at him in disapproval, and a nearby bank of pay phones reminded him of something else. "Is there a phone?" If and when Soundwave arrived with his cassettes, the Stunticon on watch was supposed to call the base and alert the others.

"Yeah," Trevor said. "You need to call someone?"

"I might.."

Trevor grinned. "So does this mean you're coming over?"

Dead End looked up, meeting his gaze. "Yes."

Trevor's dorm room turned out to be just that, a single room roughly the same size as the living room of their apartment, crammed with twin desks, dressers, night tables, and two long, narrow beds. Dead End paused on the threshold while Trevor rifled through his pockets, finally producing a rubber band which he looped over the doorknob. That didn't seem to serve any purpose that Dead End could discern, but all he got from Trevor in response to his inquiring look was a sheepish shrug and a muttered excuse about not wanting to be bothered.

Apart from the obvious surplus of furniture, the most prominent feature of the room was a set of wide bay of windows that took up the entire length of the far wall. When he stepped inside for a closer look, Dead End was relieved to learn that Trevor hadn't been exaggerating about the view – his windows were positioned above, in front and only slightly to the left of the main entrance to the science building – the perfect vantage point for standing watch.

Dead End couldn't believe his luck. Trevor's room was warm, dry, and commanded a perfect view of his target. Pit, Trevor even had _coffee_, and would probably lend him a book if he asked. His evening was looking up…

"Um…can I take your coat?"

Dead End blinked in surprise, turning back to look at him. "Of course not. It's _mine_."

Trevor stared at him for a beat, then gave a startled laugh. "No, I meant…I was gonna hang it up. You know…'cause it's wet?"

"Oh." He'd heard that phrase in movies, but it had never occurred to him that the characters had handed over their garments with the expectation of getting them _back_. Feeling vaguely foolish, he shrugged out of his dripping coat and handed it over, then started on his shirt as Trevor turned away.

He had it nearly half-unbuttoned when an uneasy feeling overtook him, prompting him to look up.

Trevor was staring back at him, his jaw agape and, his cheeks flushed a brilliant crimson. The look on his face was so reminiscent of the expressions worn by Ominsky's spies that morning in their apartment that Dead End felt an inexplicable urge to cover himself.

The impression was so strong he spoke without thinking. "Do you have a towel?"

Trevor seemed to shake himself free of his stupor. "Uh…yeah. Just a sec." He turned away and began digging around in a closet.

Dead End frowned. Suddenly he didn't feel remotely at ease, in contrast to his willingness to strip to the skin only moments before. If he'd been back at their base, he wouldn't have hesitated – but this _wasn't _their base. How could he have forgotten that? When Trevor finally handed him the towel, he was relieved to have the excuse of drying his hair to conceal his discomfiture.

"Coffee?" he asked when he emerged.

"Oh, right," Trevor replied abashedly. "I'll put on a pot."

While he was occupied with that, Dead End spread the towel over the bed nearest the windows. He sat down, propping his chin in his hands and his elbows on the sill, and resumed his vigil.

A short while later Trevor sat down beside him, handing him a cup of coffee. "So… all that stuff you told me about you being a robot… that was all true?"

Dead End glanced at him in surprise. "Was there ever any doubt?"

Trevor laughed. "Well, maybe not for _you_," he said. "But for me…yeah." He shrugged, turning his half-filled coffee mug in his hands. "At first I figured you just were making it up to get rid of me. But then I did some digging and it all just seemed to _fit_, you know? The dates, things you said… You know, everyone's been speculating about what happened to you guys."

Dead End arched a brow at that, feeling oddly pleased. "The humans noticed we were gone?"

"Yeah. Most think you're dead. Some say Megatron killed you, others think it was Optimus Prime."

"Unlikely and impossible, in that order. Did they say anything else?"

Trevor shook his head. "Just that you were gone, and no one knows where you went." He glanced out the window, taking in the building that had occupied so much of Dead End's attention. "But you said you had a plan. Everything was under control. What went wrong?"

That particular failure was still fresh enough for him to resent Trevor bringing it up. "We dialed the wrong number," he replied curtly.

"Oh," Trevor said. "So now you're using our transmitter instead? Like, E.T. phone home?"

Not wanting to risk compromising their plan, Dead End opted to remain vague on the details. "Something like that."

"Think it'll work?" Trevor asked.

"It had better," he replied glumly. "Our only other option is to charter a ship and _sail_ out to the _Nemesis_. And if we do that, we will have to shoot an albatross to ensure that our luck improves."

Trevor laughed at that, but his amusement abruptly faded. "Wait a minute…if you've been trying to use the transmitter to send a message to Megatron, why were you hanging around _outside_ the building instead of sneaking _inside_?"

Dead End fought to keep the frown off his face and his eyes on the window, to not allow his expression to betray him. He should have known, of course – Trevor wasn't stupid. Would he be able to guess the real reason they were here?

"Oh…oh, shit," Trevor said. "The Decepticons…they're coming _here_, aren't they?"

_Frag._ "Trevor," he said, keeping his voice low and soothing, "you must remain calm…"

"_Calm? _Are you kidding me?This is so_ COOL!"_ Trevor's grin nearly split his face from ear to ear. "Decepticons, on _my_ campus! Oh, man, this is gonna be _**awesome-!**_" He broke off suddenly, regarding Dead End with a worried frown. "Wait – you don't think they'll hurt anyone, do you?"

"Not a single person," he replied diplomatically. _More like everyone they see. Including us, most likely._

"Oh, good." Trevor looked relieved, then grinned. "I bet they cancel classes for an entire _week_."

Dead End wasn't sure how to respond to that, so he settled for a noncommittal noise and took another sip of coffee. The hot liquid warmed him from within, easing the tension from his frame.

"So…that's it?" Trevor asked after a brief silence. "That's your whole plan?"

Dead End looked up, pulled from his contemplation of the rain-washed building outside. "What?"

"Your plan," Trevor said again. "Send a message to Megatron, get him to come here. That's it?"

Absent the details, that struck him as a fair summation. "Yes."

"Well, not to nitpick or anything, but…aren't you forgetting something?"

Dead End frowned. "Such as?"

"Such as...you know, the part where you actually get changed back into a robot?" Trevor said.

Dead End blinked. "Oh." They'd never really discussed that part. "That."

"You don't actually know how you're going to do that, do you?" Trevor asked gently.

_The Constructicons built the device that did this_. _They'll find a way. _"…no," he admitted. He had never been very good at optimism.

"What if you _can't_ change back?" Trevor said. "I mean, what if Megatron can't fix it? Have you thought about that? You could be stuck like this."

Dead End huffed, shaking his head. "Thank you, Trevor. I wasn't depressed enough before."

"Well, look on the bright side." Trevor nudged him with an elbow. "Maybe it wouldn't be so bad."

Dead End gave him a wry look. "Is that a joke?"

"Not at all," Trevor said. "I'm not saying everything's perfect, but there are _some_ good things about being human."

"Oh, really?"

"Sure! This, for one," Trevor said, clinking his coffee mug against Dead End's. "And this..."

Leaning forward, Trevor lifted the mug of coffee from his hands. Dead End opened his mouth to protest – he hadn't finished it yet – but before he could voice the words, Trevor's lips covered his own.

Trevor's tongue tasted of coffee, but it was a poor substitute for the mug he'd stolen. And the kiss itself carried far too many implications. Breathing a sigh of resignation, Dead End turned his face away.

Trevor drew back, regarding him with a puzzled frown. "What's wrong?"

Dead End pushed a lock of damp hair away from his forehead. "What part of 'I'm a giant robot from another planet' did you fail to understand?"

"You said you turned into a Porsche," Trevor said. "That's more like a giant robot from Germany. And if it turns out you're stuck like this, technically you wouldn't be either– you'd just be a regular human."

Dead End shook his head and turned away, but Trevor caught hold of his chin, drawing him back to meet his gaze.

"…an incredibly smart, amazingly attractive, unbelievably sexy human."

Dead End blinked, taken aback. "You…think I'm attractive?"

Trevor gaped at him for a moment, then gave a short, incredulous laugh. "Well, _yeah_."

If Dead End had still had audial sensors, he'd have checked to see if they were glitching. "…as a human?"

"No, as a spider monkey." Trevor rolled his eyes. "Of course as a human! Are you kidding me? You're like the hottest guy I've ever seen! And I mean _ever."_

"But…I'm not shiny," he said. "I'm...squashy. And hairy. I smell funny."

Trevor laughed again. "And you've got a great sense of humor."

It had to be a mistake. He wasn't _attractive_. He was lumpy and revolting. "I'm tiny."

Trevor blinked, glancing briefly at his lap. "How tiny?"

"Barely five foot ten."

Trevor grinned. "Not a problem, believe me."

"I'm hideous," he insisted. "And at the rate things are going, I'll never be beautiful again."

"You're gorgeous," Trevor said. "A real sports car among humans." He leaned closer, laying a hand on Dead End's thigh. "And if you'll let me, I'd _love_ to show you just how attractive you are."


	36. Changing Lanes

_Chapter summary: Dead End keeps watch for Soundwave and his cassettes, but Trevor does his best to distract him._

– _anon_decepticon and QoS/mdperera_

_Thanks also to Kookaburra 1701 for her support and input, and to all our readers!_

_This chapter is a bit short, because technically it's the second half of the last one, which A_D couldn't finish on time due to health issues. Thankfully the next one will be longer. Hope you enjoy it anyway._

* * *

**Chapter 36 – Changing Lanes**

Trevor's hand was on his thigh, warm, but not harsh or gripping. Dead End glanced out the window, then back at the human. He had the sneaking suspicion that Trevor's "demonstration" would involve more than kissing, but he agreed nonetheless. "Show me."

Trevor smiled and leaned in close, proving him right.

Dead End permitted him to continue, keeping his gaze on the window even as he allowed Trevor's tongue coax his lips apart. From the moment the human had first tried to kiss him tonight, he'd suspected Trevor's hospitality came at a price.

The thought didn't exactly thrill him, but he'd endured worse. And after everything Trevor had done – given him a cab ride home, offered him shelter from the rain, kept silent about who they were – Dead End supposed he owed the human something. If this was what Trevor wanted in return, Dead End was willing to oblige him.

Especially if the alternative was going back out into the rain.

He didn't think Trevor intended to hurt him. His lips were warm against Dead End's throat, his breath hot against his ear. One of his hands was cradling Dead End's head, his fingers entwined in his hair. None of it was remotely threatening, and he could still see out the window well enough…

It was even pleasant, the way the human's tongue moved against his, the faint spicy scent of his skin. Trevor's touch was gentle, not greedy, and he seemed to have an innate knowledge of all Dead End's hot spots. _Is this what it's like to be with a human?_

Trevor's mouth progressed from his neck to his shoulder, his other hand reaching up to tug Dead End's shirt aside, baring more of his chest. Dead End's stomach gave an odd little lurch as Trevor's tongue found one of the tiny sensitive knobs there, and he felt his breath catch in his throat.

_Have you thought about that?_ _You could be stuck like this._

Seemingly encouraged by the sound, Trevor leaned into him, pressing him back onto the bed. Dead End allowed himself to be borne down onto the mattress, quashing the faint flicker of unease that shot through him as he lost sight of the window. _It'll only be a minute,_ he thought. _He'll be done soon_.

The truth was, he _had_ thought about it. He'd spent the better part of a day thinking of nothing else, seated in that chair next to Motormaster's hospital bed, wondering what their leader's death might mean for the rest of them.

In some ways they'd be better off – Breakdown would be less paranoid, Wildrider less insane – but Motormaster was the linchpin that held them all together. Without him, the team would fall apart.

That had been….a difficult thing to admit, even to himself, alone in that hospital room, that he couldn't keep the team together. It had cut to the core of everything Dead End feared, but he didn't doubt for a moment that it was true. In his mind, one by one they'd left him. Drag Strip ran off to Hollywood seeking fame and adoration. Wildrider went with him, because where Drag Strip went, Wildrider was sure to follow. And Breakdown…

In his fantasy, Breakdown stayed. But as much as the thought elated him, Dead End knew it was a lie. The _real_ Breakdown would have dreams of his own, just like the others. Why would he want Dead End hovering around, complaining and correcting him every time he misspoke? _Like a little black cloud with a large vocabulary._

And then there would be nothing left for him, except loneliness and a slow decline into rust. _No, dust._

A tugging sensation brought him back to the here-and-now, and Dead End realized that while he'd been lost in his thoughts, Trevor had continued to work his way steadily down his chest, and had just pulled his shirt free of his waistband.

_So much for hoping it would be over soon. _He wondered what the time was, but from his prone position he couldn't see Trevor's clock. The room was a little darker now though, to match his mood.

Trevor shifted above him, moving to straddle his hips, and slipped a hand beneath his shirt, eyes widening as his fingers encountered the ridges of Dead End's stomach. "Oh, _wow_," he breathed.

His awestruck tone made Dead End feel a little better, a little less like the situation had slipped out of his control. _You agreed to this, remember?_ Trevor had offered to demonstrate that he found him attractive, and now he was doing just that, exactly as promised.

Leaning forward, Trevor bent down to kiss him again, but then he paused, glancing down in surprise. He shifted his hips and looked at Dead End, his eyebrows lifted halfway to his hairline, and his face abruptly split into a grin. "Is that a gun in your pocket, or are you just _really_ happy to see me?"

"It's a gun."

Trevor stared at him, the smile freezing. "You're kidding, right?"

"No, I'm not." Dead End shifted enough to get a hand between their bodies, pulled out the gun and showed it to him.

"Holy shit!" Trevor squeaked, scrambling backwards on the bed. "Is that thing loaded?"

"Of course it is." He checked the safety catch before setting the weapon aside. "It wouldn't be nearly as effective if it wasn't."

"Jeez," Trevor said, running a hand over his face. He closed his eyes and took several deep breaths. "Where did you even…never mind, I don't wanna know." He clapped his hands briskly. "Okay! I'm good."

Dead End arched a brow. "Perhaps now isn't the best time."

Trevor's gaze swept him up and down, taking in his half-buttoned shirt and rumpled hair. "Oh, no way. I've been dreaming about this ever since I met you."

"Ah." Well, it had been worth a shot. Propping himself up on his elbows, he glanced out the window again, but there were no helpful signs of activity outside the science building. "All right."

Trevor grinned, pulling his own shirt over his head. "Got any other weapons I should know about?"

"Just the one."

Trevor smiled and leaned over him, this time focusing his attention on Dead End's stomach ridges, and once again Dead End found himself struggling to suppress a peculiar feeling of unease.

He shivered, his skin suddenly awash with tiny bumps. There wasn't any reason for him to be reacting this way. Trevor wasn't hurting him, or doing anything Dead End hadn't done before. Granted, he'd never 'faced with anyone _outside_ the gestalt before, but he was fairly certain at least some of the others had – Wildrider had 'faced one of the Reflectors once, and now Motormaster was fragging that woman from the deli…

But in spite of that, there was a cold spot lodged in the pit of his stomach like a lump of ice, and when his breath quickened to match Trevor's, it was more out of fear than lust.

"Stop." The word was spoken so quietly it took him a moment to realize he was the one who'd voiced it.

Trevor halted in mid-kiss, lifting his head to look him in the eye. "What's wrong?"

Dead End stared back at him blankly, too baffled by his own reaction to respond. _Why had he done that? Why had he told him to stop?_

"Is it because of that Tom guy?" Trevor asked. "Are you scared he'll find out?"

Dead End shook his head. Even if they regained their true forms and merged into Menasor, he doubted the others would learn about this. Necessity had made him adept at keeping certain thoughts to himself.

"Are you afraid it will hurt?" Trevor asked. "I'll be gentle, I promise. I'll make you feel really, really good."

Dead End frowned, his brows knitting. "It's not that."

Trevor settled into a more comfortable position, reclining at his side. "Then what is it?"

Dead End looked at him, meeting the human's sincere gaze. "I don't know," he said. "It feels…wrong."

"Was it something I did?" Trevor asked. "Do…do I remind you of _him_?"

The frozen spot in the pit of his stomach suddenly bloomed outward, turning the fuel in his lines to ice. Suddenly it all made sense – why he felt inexplicably drawn to this human, against all common sense and in spite of his efforts to push him away. And why Trevor's offers of "freedom" were both a temptation…and a torment.

His stomach churning in self-disgust, Dead End pushed the human away and sat up. "I don't want this."

Trevor stared at him, his expression both hurt and bewildered. "Why not?"

"Because it would be a lie," he snapped. He turned away, bending down to retrieve his gun, and began re-buttoning his shirt.

Trevor was silent for a moment, watching him. "Because I'm not a robot?"

Dead End sighed, looking out the window. _Because you're not_ him. "Because you're not one of us."

"What does that even mean?" Trevor demanded. "Who is _us_? Decepticons? Transformers? _What?_"

"Stunticons," he replied. "My team, my gestalt. They're the ones I frag."

Trevor blinked. "Wait, you mean you – with _all_ of them?"

"Them and only them, yes."

"Wow. The papers didn't say anything about _that_."

"Well, it's not as if we considerately interface in front of reporters and cameras." He ran his fingers through his hair, trying to smooth it back from his forehead. "Especially not cameras."

"Wait, how exactly do robots–?" But before Trevor could finish the question, an earsplitting crash echoed outside. He flinched at the sound, looking up at the ceiling. "That – that wasn't thunder."

"No." It had been too close, too much like an explosion. Dead End moved back to the window and looked outside again, at the science building.

It had been early evening when Trevor had seen him, but now it was dark. Dead End squinted, trying to see through the night and the fog, which curled thickly around the buildings across the square… fog that looked a lot like clouds of smoke and dust.

"They're here, aren't they?" Trevor whispered.

An alarm was shrieking in the science building, and as Dead End's barely-adequate human eyes adapted to the gloom he made out two large shapes moving through the smoke. Too large to be Soundwave's cassettes, which wasn't good. Ignoring the gaping rent in the side of the science building, as well as the people shouting and running for cover, he strained to see more details.

"You're not going out there, are you?" Trevor's voice was hushed, as though he was afraid he would be heard all the way across the square. He didn't seem to be as excited about a Decepticon invasion of his campus now. "What if they think you're just another human?"

"We're prepared for that possibility." Dead End tore his attention away from the scene for a moment, glancing at Trevor instead. Whatever happened in the next few minutes, he knew it was unlikely he would ever see Trevor again, and especially not under such circumstances. But the human had been friendly and accommodating, and that counted for something. "Whoever they are, don't go near them."

"Wasn't planning on it," Trevor said, shaking his head. "But what about you?"

A screech of brakes made Dead End turn back to the window. A car had come to an abrupt halt near the science building, and Dead End could read what was painted on the car's side. _Security; not good either._ But its headlights flashed through the smoke and reflected off the mechs who stood beside the science building. He caught only a single glimpse before one mech turned and fired at the car, but that was all he needed. The paintjobs revealed by the headlights were a bright lime-green.

He grabbed the phone, punching in their number and kept watching as it rang – though only twice before it was picked up. "Yeah?" Motormaster's voice said.

"The Constructicons," Dead End said. "They're here."


	37. Collision

_Chapter summary : Motormaster prepares for Plan B, but things do not go as expected. And for those of you who have read Kookaburra1701's Stockholm-verse fics, there's a semi-shoutout here… enjoy!_

_Authors' note : This chapter contains a sex scene between a human and a Cybertronian-turned-human, so please don't read further if you find that offensive. Thanks!_

* * *

**Chapter 37 : Collision**

It had taken Motormaster nearly two days to recover from his single-minded race back to the apartment. When he heard Wildrider's yelled news about finally getting through to the base, he didn't think about his injury or the stitches in his side—he simply reacted, running into the lobby and then up the stairs when he saw the elevator was malfunctioning again. All his concentration was bent on the task of getting through to Megatron.

It wasn't until he went into his room and closed the door that he discovered the slow leak from his damaged side.

One of the stitches was broken, although this time the fluid seeping gradually through wasn't blood. Motormaster stared at it, listening to his own ventilations in the quiet room, registering the thud of his fuel pump. Suddenly he wanted to sink his nails into the soft human flesh that covered him and tear it off, rip it all off until there was nothing left but the clean hard chrome and steel of his true frame.

He swallowed hard. He couldn't do that, and the knowledge forced the violent impulse down until all that remained was a cold and dispassionate contempt for his own weakness. Finding a torn shirt, he wadded it up and pressed it against his damaged side, then lay down with his other arm across his optics. Once he had rested a little, he would think of what to do next.

To his disgust, though, his human body betrayed him again and he fell asleep instead.

When he woke up and went back into the living-room, he heard about Breakdown's new plan. He sat down at the table to think it over while Wildrider served dinner—mashed potatoes with packets of salad dressing filched from a restaurant. They had run out of money for pizza.

"Good," he said to Breakdown between mouthfuls. "At least that'll use the fragging computer instead of it being the world's most expensive doorstop."

"Nuh-uh, you can play Mission Omega on it," Wildrider said.

Motormaster threw his fork in that direction without even looking, and leaned across the table to grab Wildrider's fork instead as he yelped and ducked, barely escaping. He continued eating as he waited for the inevitable Phase II of any plan, which was Dead End pointing out all the various ways things could go from the smelter to the Pit. The rest of them could usually figure out how to work around those.

That time, though, Dead End came up with a significant problem. "How can we ensure they'll even listen to us? If they're secretly infiltrating a communications centre, they won't want to be surprised by humans, and if they're breaking in, they might think we're trying to stop them."

"And if we tell them we used to be the Stunticons, they'll die laughing," Drag Strip said, pushing his potatoes around on his plate.

"What d'you mean, _used _to be?" Motormaster felt like throwing another fork at him.

Drag Strip shot him a wary glance from under lowered brows. "You know what I mean. We look exactly like humans, so how is Frenzy or Ravage or whoever supposed to know who we are?"

"Well, there'll be five of us," Wildrider said.

"Oh yeah, that'll make all the difference. Humans _never_ go around in a party of five."

"We won't all approach them." Motormaster was certain of that—not only would it be suicide to make any Decepticon think they were under attack by a bunch of humans, but he had no intention of risking his entire team. "I'll do it. Once they believe me, the rest of you join us."

The other Stunticons exchanged quick looks and after a moment Breakdown cleared his throat. "What if they don't believe you?"

"A pile-driver to the kneecap," Dead End said. "If we're fortunate."

Motormaster glared at him. He badly wanted to say that of course they would believe him—he could tell them his designation, recite his security codes and even mention the time Laserbeak had flown smack into his windshield during a battle, smashing the unbreakable glass and twisting one wing so badly he'd gotten stuck there, half in and half out of his cab. But all that took time. Ravage especially acted fast and might fire a missile within nanoseconds of seeing someone approach.

"Too bad we don't have our faction symbols anymore," Wildrider said.

Breakdown perked up. "We could get a T-shirt with ours on it."

"We can do better than a T-shirt," Motormaster said. "Remember when we slagged those humans in the warehouse? One of 'em had had a snake drawn on his arm. I could get our symbol on mine."

"A tattoo?" Wildrider said.

"Whatever the frag they're called." Clothes weren't a part of him but skin was, so he wanted the Decepticon emblem on his arm. He tried not to think about the possibility of Rumble discovering it only after tearing the arm clean off.

"You know they do that with needles, right?" Drag Strip said.

Dead End nodded. "And certainly not for free."

Motormaster set his teeth and pushed his plate away, no longer feeling hungry, but Wildrider piped up that he had a Magic Marker and could easily draw the tattoo on. So Breakdown cleared the table while Motormaster rolled up his sleeve and got a fairly good Decepticon symbol inked on his right upper arm. He would have liked it in purple, but black was better than nothing.

They decided to wait a day before Breakdown put the new plan into effect, partly to give him enough time to compose nonsense in Cybertronian for the satellite to relay to the receiving equipment, and partly because Motormaster didn't want to act _too_ soon now that the Combaticons were on the alert. But a day was all they could wait. He didn't even have enough money to pay the rent that was due in a week, much less to repay Ominsky when their time ran out.

After that they worked out a schedule of watches for the building which would receive the satellite's signals. Wildrider couldn't be stationed to watch anything, but Motormaster rotated the rest of them in five-hour shifts. "And since you like to be first, Drag Strip, for once you get what you want."

Drag Strip looked resentful—and actually protested when Motormaster ordered him to take off his bright yellow coat before leaving—but he was finally dressed inconspicuously and out of the apartment. Motormaster considered throwing the yellow coat into the nearest dumpster and setting the dumpster alight for good measure, but realized if he did Drag Strip would simply go out and do whatever it took to get something else in the same eye-blistering color.

The five hours he was gone seemed to last forever, and Motormaster could only clean and load his shotgun so many times—although he knew he couldn't take it with him, since running up to any Decepticon with a shotgun was a good way to find out if there was a Primus. He finally ordered Wildrider and Breakdown to bring the television set back into the living-room, ostensibly to be aware of any news broadcasts, but also because the other Stunticons all crammed into Wildrider's quarters otherwise, leaving him alone in the living-room as he waited for the phone to ring.

Except the television proved too much of a distraction. Wildrider found some human film to watch, and none of them even seemed to notice Motormaster's sneer, but to his annoyance he found himself looking up from his shotgun more and more often, especially when the humans on the screen began engaging in interactions like the one he had experienced with Val two days ago. He would have sneered again at each kiss if he hadn't kept remembering what it had felt like when Val had done that to him.

He ordered Wildrider to change the channel, but the next program was a documentary on medieval knights. The armor made Motormaster think of the steel frame he no longer had, and the swords didn't help either. He put the shotgun on the table and got up.

"I'm going out for a walk," he said. There were still two hours of Drag Strip's shift left to go, and Soundwave would need a little time to pick up the signal, try to decipher it and then send out the troops. Half of Motormaster hoped that time would be as brief as possible.

The other half reminded him that when the plan worked, he would return to the _Nemesis_ and never see Val again. He would never know what else she might have done besides kiss him.

_And what if they find out?_ his cynical side said. Once they got their real frames back, they would merge again, and if the other Stunticons ever found out about his moment of weakness, Motormaster wasn't quite sure what would happen. He might have been given his position as their leader, but he had earned it as well, by making sure his team always saw him as strong and fearless, solid as the ground under their wheels. Now he would be more like quicksand.

_Since when did I worry what they thought of me?_ He curled his hands into fists. _They'd have preferred it if I'd never walked out of that repair facility._ At least Val wasn't like that. For once, just for one last time before he returned home, he could be with someone who didn't resent him, who didn't even seem to fear him, strange though that was. Someone who seemed to genuinely like spending time with him, even… touching him.

_Because she doesn't know who you are._

He had reached the building's lobby by then, and the internal battle was as fierce as any he had ever fought on the roads. By the time he reached the deli he still wasn't sure what he would do, and the uncertainty scraped his nerves raw. Val looked up from the counter with a smile that faded when she saw his face, and she moved quickly to the coffeemaker.

"No," Motormaster said brusquely.

Val turned with the pot poised in her hand. "You don't want coffee?"

"I just said that, didn't I?"

She looked at him for a long moment before replacing the coffee pot. "Do you want a donut, then?"

"No!" Motormaster said, then reconsidered. He had the shift after Dead End's, which meant five hours without anything to eat. "All right. Put one in a bag."

She handed it to him and he took it, then stood wondering what to do. The deli was still open, with a few customers were seated at tables. "When are you closing?" he said.

Val glanced at the clock on the wall. "In about half an hour. Do you need to talk about something?"

Motormaster nodded and took a table as far from everyone else as possible, though when Val joined him a few moments later she asked if he could exchange seats with her so she could keep an eye on the customers. He glowered at her—he hated having his back to humans—but she just looked back and waited until he got up.

"Thanks for keeping it warm for me," she said as she sat down. "So, what's wrong?"

Motormaster stared at the paper doily between them. Now that he was there, he didn't quite know how to begin. Val wasn't easily rattled, but _I want to interface with you _would probably make her wish she had just given him the coffee.

"I…" he began, then cleared his vocalizer. He looked up from the doily and met Val's eyes. "We're planning to go back home."

He wasn't sure what exactly had made him blurt that out, but there hadn't seemed anything else to say and he had always been more comfortable with a direct frontal approach anyway. Val blinked and sat back in her chair before she replied.

"So you won't be coming here anymore?" she said.

Good, at least she didn't ask questions about where his home was. Motormaster shook his head. "Not if things work out."

"What about the loan shark?"

Motormaster felt his mouth stretch into a slow grin. "Oh, once we get back home I'll pay him back. With interest."

"I didn't hear that," Val said, glancing at one of the floor tiles. "I don't want to be called as a witness later. But at least you and your friends will be… okay… once you're home."

"Better than okay," Motormaster said. Now came the difficult part. "But I won't be able to talk to you again."

Val looked back at him, one corner of her mouth turning up. "You couldn't call?" Calling wasn't what Motormaster had in mind, so he said nothing. "I guess calls are monitored?"

"You could say that. And I… don't just want to talk."

"Oh?" Val said, her brows arching.

Did she really need him to draw a map? She hadn't seemed so slow on the uptake before. "Look, what you did the last time I was here..."

"What did I do?"

"Stop playing around!" Motormaster said, exasperated. "You kissed me."

The little smile touched her mouth again, making him wish he could stop noticing everything she did with her lips. "Guess you liked it?"

Motormaster started to answer, but Val held up a finger and left the table to serve a human in a pin-striped suit. He turned in his chair, watching her quick efficient movements as she sliced cake and poured coffee, but then the human looked up at her—naturally Val was taller—and said something that made her laugh. Motormaster felt a brief but sharp twinge of jealousy.

She was back at his table in a few moments, though, with a cup of hot chocolate. "So tell me," she said. "Haven't you ever gone out with anyone else?"

Motormaster wasn't sure what "gone out" meant, but if it was some typically human interaction he was sure he hadn't indulged in it. He shook his head.

"Wow." Val took a sip of her hot chocolate.

Motormaster had hoped she would get it, but apparently that wasn't going to happen. "Look," he said, leaning forward, "I'll never get to do that again once I go back to the—go back home, so can we—"

"Whoa," Val said. "Back that up. You won't ever be able to kiss a woman once you leave?"

"No."

"Are you serious?"

Motormaster gave her a long cold stare. "I don't joke."

Val leaned back in her chair and shook her head slowly. "Tom," she said after a long moment, "you are an endlessly intriguing man."

Motormaster had never before been told he was endlessly intriguing in any shape or form. He looked closely at Val to see if she was being sarcastic, but she jumped up again to serve yet another customer. "I'm going to throw all the rest of them out in a second," he said as she returned.

"Take it easy." Val briefly rested a hand on his shoulder when she passed him, and Motormaster was startled into silence. She smiled as she sat down. "So I'm just curious. What will happen if you go back home but then… get involved with a woman?"

Motormaster considered that. Humans on the ship simply didn't last long, and if he drove off in alt-mode to see Val—which wouldn't happen, because Wildrider was the insane one, not him—he had no idea what she would do. She didn't seem like the type to deactivate out of sheer terror, but if any other Decepticon or Autobot caught them together…

"She'll die," he said.

Val lost the smile. "You're serious? Yes, of course you are." She looked at her cup of chocolate as if seeing it for the first time, and gulped it all down.

"It won't happen after we go back," Motormaster said. "It'll never happen after that. This might be the last day—"

"Could you use my name occasionally?" Val said.

"What?"

She shrugged, looking into the empty cup as if searching for something there. "I've just noticed you never say my name."

"Fine," Motormaster said, biting off the word. "Val." He wished she had a proper Cybertronian name.

She raised her eyes, not the dark brown of coffee but lighter and with the faintest tinge of green in them, and although she wasn't smiling, Motormaster didn't think he could look away from her face. "Go on with whatever you were saying."

"I want to…" Motormaster didn't know what to say after that, because if she didn't understand what "interface" meant, it wouldn't help. And if she _did_ understand it, he'd be in worse trouble, because she might recognize it as a term Cybertronians rather than humans would use. He settled for, "I want to kiss you again."

She glanced past him at the rest of the deli, then touched her index finger to her lips. Leaning forward, she pressed her finger lightly against his mouth.

"You know what I mean," Motormaster said between his teeth, deciding he would slap her hand if she tried that again. He liked being touched, but now she was deliberately teasing.

"Yeah, I do." She looked down and traced a circle on the table's surface with a fingernail.

"Hurry up and make a decision, then." Motormaster thought of tacking a sarcastic "Val" onto the end of that, but thought better of it—that was the kind of petulant, irritating thing Drag Strip would do. Instead, he struggled to speak calmly although he wanted nothing more than to toss the rest of the humans out, lock the door and order Val to find something they could both lie down on, because the tables didn't look as though they could take two people's weight. "I'll be on watch duty in the morning."

Val got to her feet. "Want to wait until I've closed up? Then I'll give you my decision."

Motormaster opened his mouth to tell her he would do no such thing, before realizing a few humans still remained in the deli, idly lingering over coffee or newspapers, and he couldn't afford to draw too much attention to himself by starting an argument. No choice; he had to wait for Val's "decision". As if she had so much choice in the matter when she was dealing with the leader of the Stunticons. He glared at her and folded his arms.

Val put a hand on his shoulder again. "I'll get you some milk," she said and started to walk away.

"Val?" Motormaster said, and heard her stop. "I want coffee."

* * *

Val took what felt like hours to deal with the last few customers, smiling and talking to them while Motormaster fumed silently from his table, keeping one optic on her and the other on the clock, but it was only about fifteen minutes. Then she cleaned off the tables and started to count the day's takings, though by then Motormaster knew what her decision would be. Val, he realized, wasn't stupid enough to refuse the leader of the Stunticons when they were alone anywhere.

She still took her time with what she referred to as the "float", and when he leaned over the counter and started to tap the fingers of his free hand on it, her only comment was that he could take out the trash if he was in such a hurry. Motormaster thought that wasn't even worthy of a reply, but that meant he had to wait until Val did it and turned off the lights.

"My place isn't far," she said when she saw him look at the clock for what felt like the twentieth time.

Motormaster nodded, though he couldn't help feeling a little uncertain. Now that he came to think about it, he'd never interfaced with his subordinates in their quarters; it was always his berth, establishing territorial boundaries from the start. This encounter would obviously be different in every way.

He kept pace with Val, though he jerked in surprise when she slipped her arm around his elbow. "Relax," she said, and in the glow of a nearby streetlight he saw she was smiling again. Except he wasn't even close to relaxing, since the arm she was now holding was the one with his new Decepticon sigil. He tried to think what to do about that. Would she be suspicious if he didn't take his shirt off?

He barely even noticed the building she led him to, but when she opened the apartment door he stopped in his tracks. He'd become used to his team's simple, utilitarian base, and Val's seemed to be the exact opposite. The walls were patterned, the furnishings soft and the floor softer with thick colorful rugs. The place even smelled different, a little like the fabric softener Drag Strip insisted on using with his clothes.

"Come on in." Val tugged on his arm until he complied, and then she closed and locked the door. Motormaster stood just inside. If that had been their base, he would have led her to his berth, but he didn't know where anything was now. He looked at Val, silently willing her to make the next move.

That little smile was playing around her mouth again. "Tom," she said, then looked away. "Never mind. It's just… strange, you know, being with a guy who's a virgin."

_Oh, wonderful_, Motormaster thought. He had hoped she would know what to do, but apparently she found it all as awkward as he did. He wished he could order her to shut up and just interface with him already, but he had a feeling that wouldn't work.

Still, on the rare occasions he had felt uncertain he had always covered it up by going on the offensive, so he did that now. "So you've never done this before either?" he said.

"Not with someone like you." Val grinned, and Motormaster thought, _You have no idea_. "I guess we're both scared."

"Maybe you are. I've never been scared in my life." He thought it would be a good idea to prove that, so he put his donut down on a small table and took Val's shoulders between his hands firmly. She blinked, looking disconcerted for the first time.

Something stirred within him, something far darker than curiosity or lust. He always felt that cold, strut-deep thirst when he enforced his superiority, when he showed that he was in a position of control. It wasn't of his own volition—part of the programming that had been his from the moment of creation reacted that way to the feel of yielding human flesh between his strong hands, and the flicker of fear in human eyes.

Brown eyes. Val's eyes. Motormaster swallowed hard and forced the impulse down. He had indulged his sadistic streak in the past and might still do so with Val, if she didn't satisfy him. But more than that, he wanted her to kiss him again, and to touch him without hesitation.

So he released her slowly, smoothing his palms down her arms as he did so. "What's there to be scared of?" he said softly.

"I have a feeling I'm better off not knowing." Val turned her head to watch his hands as if fascinated by them, and Motormaster thought he would enjoy touching more of her like that, covering her and marking her. She looked back at him and spoke even more quietly. "Do you want me to kiss you again?"

He nodded. She moved forward, into the circle of his arms, and he lowered his head to meet her mouth with his. This time he had an idea what to do, though the rush of heat through his frame still startled him. He tightened his grip, pressing Val's body against his until she squirmed to be free.

"Let's go to bed," she whispered against his mouth.

Motormaster had no objections, but when they reached the bedroom Val turned a lamp on and refused to switch it off when he ordered her to do so. "Tom, if you've never been with a woman before, a little light might help," she said.

He controlled an impulse to smash the lamp, since that wasn't likely to make Val want to 'face him. "Fine. But I'm keeping my shirt on."

The corners of her mouth turned up. "Could we at least unbutton it?"

Motormaster supposed there was no way she could see the tattoo as long as he didn't take his arms out of the sleeves. He unbuttoned it and shed the rest of his clothes, waiting for Val to get on the berth as any of the Stunticons would have done, but instead she frowned at his chest.

"I don't think we should put any strain on that," she said, and he realized she was looking at the damage he had taken.

"Are you backing out?"

She looked lower. "Oh, hell no. But why don't you lie down first?"

Was that how humans did it? Motormaster lay down gingerly—the slagging bed was so _soft—_and watched as Val undressed. The end result was startling, because he hadn't realized human females looked so different with their clothes off. He was relieved she had left the lamp on. If not, he might have spent valuable time searching for something she evidently didn't have.

"Tell me if I'm too heavy for you," she said, and slid one leg across his hips to straddle him. Motormaster would have snorted in disdain if he hadn't been so preoccupied with the smoothness of her skin against his and the knobs on her chest that were so much bigger than his. He poked one experimentally.

"Uh, like this." Val took his hands in hers and positioned them. Motormaster followed her directions and guessed from her increased ventilations and occasional moan that he was doing something right. _Weird, though_. He took one hand away and rubbed his own knobs with it, mimicking the motion. No effect.

Val gave him a strange look at that so he pulled her down for another kiss, which heated his circuits up rapidly. He liked the feel of her knobs rubbing against his chest as well, though when she reached down to grasp his interface equipment he wasn't expecting it and jerked so hard that she almost fell off the bed.

"Whoa!" She braced herself with her free hand on his shoulder. "Sorry, I forgot you haven't been with anyone before."

"Just keep… doing that," Motormaster ground out between his teeth. None of the other Stunticons had touched him like that, and of course he hadn't been able to order them to do so because even that was an admission of weakness, as though he needed them to be active participants for him to achieve overload.

Val grinned, squeezed a little—which made him gasp—and reached over to the bedside table, rattling a drawer open. She released him, much to his disappointment, and dropped something on his chest. "Here, put this on."

"Put what on?" Motormaster picked up the small packet, held it up to his optics and squinted at the label. _Put it on where?_ Human interfacing was so much more complicated than he could ever have imagined.

"I keep forgetting…" Val tore the packet open and unrolled a covering of some kind onto him. Motormaster understood that, at least. There were times he'd turned over the mattress of his berth so he didn't have to recharge on a wet spot, and Val's bed was much more elaborate. Obviously she didn't want to go to all that trouble.

Then she showed him what to do with his now-prepped interface equipment, and he forgot about everything else. He gripped her hips, arching up against her as she rode him, biting back a groan when she reached back and drew her fingertips up the inside of his thigh. She seemed to know his frame far better than he did, and she held him back until she was ready as well, though when her body tightened around him he lost all control. He stiffened and thrust up for the last time, and the pleasure shattered him with its intensity.

Val collapsed forward on to him, and as Motormaster began to recover, he glanced at the clock on her bedside table. She felt good in his arms, her skin damp with sweat and her fuel pump beating as hard as his own, but now that the interfacing was done he couldn't help thinking of his responsibilities again. The other Stunticons had no way of contacting him if something happened during his absence.

A low purr coming from her throat, Val nuzzled the spot where his neck and shoulder met. Motormaster rumbled in response, smoothing a hand down her broad back. _Maybe just one more time._

She raised her head. "Tom?"

It took him a moment to remember that that was his name; if she had called him Motormaster it would have felt more natural. "Yeah?"

She hesitated, her fingers playing with one of the hairs on his chest. "I know you said you couldn't get involved with anyone after you go back home, but before then…"

"Before then what?" Motormaster had hoped they were going to interface again, not talk.

Val propped herself up on an elbow. "I mean, if you don't go back home right away... do you want to see me again?"

Motormaster glanced at her body. "For this?"

She looked at him for a long moment, blinking rapidly. With a movement so abrupt that he didn't have time to stop her, she scrambled off him and hurried to a different door, slamming it shut behind her. He heard a key turn in a lock.

Motormaster wasn't sure what to do next, though he was certain more interfacing wasn't likely to happen. He waited for a few moments, fidgeting with the bedclothes, then thought, _To the Pit with this._ Getting up, he dressed quickly. Val still hadn't reappeared by the time he was done, so he left the apartment.

Outside, he paused and looked up at her window, but there was no sign of movement—and he'd forgotten his donut as well, though he couldn't go back for it. He didn't plan to return to the deli ever again.

* * *

"We'll be there," Motormaster said and put the phone down. No need to add "as soon as possible" – Dead End knew they wouldn't let anything stand in their way. He looked at the others, who had piled out of Wildrider's room with playing cards falling unnoticed from their hands.

"The Constructicons," he said. "Move."

Wildrider and Drag Strip bolted for the door, but Breakdown remained where he was, looking uncertain. "Me, too?" he said. "I mean, I can safeguard the base—"

Motormaster strode over. "We won't be coming back here, and if Scrapper doesn't want to take a detour to pick you up, we're in no condition to make him. Now get that knife of yours and _move!_"

Downstairs, Wildrider and Drag Strip were already perched on the Harley, revving its engine impatiently. Motormaster hailed a taxi and they started off, well behind the motorcycle thanks to heavy traffic. Finally he ordered the driver to step on the gas and ignore the red lights, which led to a disagreement resolved when Motormaster flung open his door with one hand and threw the driver out of it with the other. Breakdown squeezed between the front seats and grabbed the steering wheel before they could crash, slamming one foot on the accelerator and sending the car forward like a rocket.

Motormaster gave him a slight nod. Most police cars would be rushing to intercept the Constructicons or save any damaged humans, and if any remained to chase speeders, he would deal with them too. Now that he came to think about it, a vehicle with a screaming siren would be perfect for getting through traffic.

Breakdown followed the motorbike as it hurtled down a road and leaned into a turn. The taxi bounced over a speed bump and clipped a stop sign, but Motormaster barely noticed. The sirens ahead—a change from the usual position of human law enforcement, which was struggling in the dust to catch up—were much more important.

Almost involuntarily he clasped a hand over his right arm, where only the thin fabric of his sleeve separated him from the Decepticon emblem.

It was dark by now, so the cluster of flashing lights in the distance was visible the moment they made the last turn. Wildrider slewed to a halt so abruptly that the motorcycle turned almost a complete 360. Breakdown hit the brakes as well, and Motormaster was out even before the taxi could come to a screeching stop. He smelled smoke and scorched rubber in the air, but if he had smelled his own flesh burning he would not have been able to look away from the sight before him.

Nearly two hundred feet away, one side of the science building had been torn or blasted away, and now lay in smoking ruins on the ground. An alarm shrieked and electricity sparked from broken circuits revealed by the destruction. Abruptly a small but blocky shape appeared on a higher floor, and as a helicopter searchlight flashed over the building Motormaster recognized the distinctive red and black paintjob.

_Frenzy_. His fuel pump leaped.

Carrying what looked like half of a bank of computers—a massive chunk of equipment bigger than he was—Frenzy tossed it out of the open side of the building. A Constructicon standing outside caught it easily and turned to pack it into a dump truck, crane-arm swinging as he did so.

_It _is_ them,_ Motormaster thought, hope flaring. The Combaticons could never have produced a deception that elaborate. Swindle had been known to fake a paintjob or two in his time, but fitting himself with a crane was another matter entirely.

And even better, it was Hook and Long Haul, two Constructicons who could be approached with some chance of success. If it had been Mixmaster and Bonecrusher, even Motormaster would have hesitated to run up to them. Frenzy threw down another piece of equipment—evidently Soundwave's instructions had been to grab everything they could, so no trace of the Cybertronian signals would be left behind for the humans.

_Humans_.

Motormaster scowled as he saw how many of them stood between him and the way back home. Police cars formed a cordon and uniformed officers held people well back, so that the area around Hook and Long Haul was deserted and spectators milled around near the Stunticons. Which was good, since they couldn't afford to stand out. None of the cops was firing at the Constructicons—yet–but far too many headlights and searchlights were pointed in that direction.

In his peripheral vision he saw someone moving towards them through the growing crowd, and he turned to see Dead End. Good, they were all together now and the plan was about to succeed.

"Right," he said, keeping his voice low. "Split up and cause some distractions. I'm going to make a run for Hook, and I want those idiots busy when I do it. Go!"

They dispersed into the crowd like blobs of spilled mercury and Motormaster moved as close to the edge of the cordon as he could without attracting the police officers' attention. Most of the cops were crouched behind their cars for cover, watching the Constructicons, but as soon as he made a dash between two of the vehicles towards Hook, they would see him.

An audial-splitting scream made all of them, Motormaster included, spin around, because the sound came from well behind the cordon. Half the cops trained guns in that direction. Through the crowd Motormaster saw Drag Strip backing away, pointing a trembling finger at a blue SUV parked nearby.

"That transformed just now!" he shouted. "It's another Decepticon!"

Before the crowd could even pull back, another alarm clanged in a building opposite the cordon. Shouts of "Fire!" rang out, and a few of the police officers ran in that direction. Motormaster felt a grin tugging at the corners of his mouth.

Wildrider had hopped into the taxi they had arrived in and reversed quietly down the road with the headlights off. Motormaster had been watching, so he saw the hi-beams flick on and the taxi zoom back towards the crowd, horn blaring. Wildrider leaped out into a flowerbed beside the road, but he must have jammed something on the accelerator because the taxi only picked up speed.

It was doing well over a hundred mph when it slammed into a streetlight. People fled screaming, and more of the cops leaped into two cars to give chase as Wildrider ran off. They drove about ten yards before their tires went flat.

At the other end of the cordon, Breakdown wriggled out from under a police car with his knife between his teeth.

Motormaster almost laughed. The square was in chaos—the cordon was falling apart as the police officers tried to control the spectators fleeing from the fire, the blue SUV and the Constructicons. In the confusion someone slammed into a cameraman and there was a loud crash of equipment shattering as it hit the ground.

The destruction was as appealing as any demolition derby, but they had a mission. Motormaster glanced at the science building just as Frenzy leaped off the upper floor, transforming in mid-air as he did so. The cassette flew through the open window of Long Haul's cab, and Motormaster knew the three of them were getting ready to leave.

He broke into a run towards them, heading between two of the parked cars. One of the police officers flung out an arm, trying to stop him. Motormaster barely felt the impact but the cop went spinning to the ground. His fuel pump hammering, he ran faster. Long Haul drove off and Hook took one last look around, evidently covering his gestaltmate's retreat. Motormaster wanted to shout at him, but with all the noise in the square he didn't think Hook would hear him, and he couldn't afford to slow down even a fraction.

Hook was only a hundred feet away now. Motormaster ran faster.

The jeep that cut between the two of them braked hard, tires squealing as they fought to grip the ground. Motormaster couldn't stop in time either. He slammed bodily into the side of the jeep and went sprawling on the ground with the taste of blood in his mouth. He was up again in the next moment, instinctively trying to dodge around the jeep before his mind caught up with his reflexes and he saw what he had collided with.

_Frag. They called in the fragging US Army—_

Then the jeep unfolded, transforming in the instant that Motormaster stood frozen, and a huge green hand—darker than those of the Constructicons—closed around him gently. Before he could react, let alone resist, it picked him up.

"Whoa!" a voice said from somewhere far above him. "Careful there! Don't get close to them!"

Motormaster felt his mouth open, but he couldn't speak. Not just because he was gasping for breath, but because he was being lifted well off the ground. Headlights glowed before him, an engine ticked over—the sound muffled by the whir of a ventilation system—and something shaped uncomfortably like a missile launcher jutted out from a massive shoulder. But worst of all were the blue optics looking down at him.

There was an explosion near the science building. Motormaster jolted, but another green hand came up to shield him as the Autobot glanced quickly in that direction. Motormaster had to force himself not to flinch away. Hound had been almost a minibot compared to him in root mode, but now he was a _giant_.

Hating the nearness, he pressed himself against the Autobot's curled fingers and craned his head to see what was happening. Hook had transformed and was about to pull out. _No! _Motormaster thought and looked around. At the corner of the square Wildrider was perched on his bike again and might be able to catch up with the Constructicons, but if Hound saw him it would be over.

Motormaster let out a strangled cry and clasped both hands to his chest as one of the humans had done in the film he'd watched. He crumpled over Hound's fingers, twitching spasmodically as Hook drove off.

"My…" he gasped. "My heart…"

Hound turned back to him, optics brightening with concern,and Wildrider streaked like a bullet towards Hook's departing form. Motormaster continued to groan, watching as best he could past Hound. No one was near enough to stop Wildrider. At his speed he would catch up with the Constructicons in—

The bike flipped into the air, turning end-over-end and throwing Wildrider several feet away before it smashed down. Motormaster was vaguely aware of Hound shouting for help, but he couldn't look away from the sight. _That didn't happen. That can't have happened. Wildrider _never_ crashes unless he wants to!_

The air beside Wildrider's limp form shimmered and solidified into a blue-and-white racecar which transformed, simultaneously pulling a weapon out of subspace. Mirage quickly put himself between Wildrider and the retreating Constructicons, but Hook was already well out of sight in the darkness.

There was nothing Motormaster could do. His fists clenched against his chest but he was helpless to stop the Autobots. He could only watch as Mirage subspaced his gun, carefully picked Wildrider up and got to his feet.

_Some day I'll kill him. Or better yet, make him wish he was dead._

The Autobots' massive forms hid the ruin of the science building from view, and the cordon was slowly re-forming as more police arrived. Ambulances drove into the square, rescue personnel piling out, and Motormaster closed his eyes.

It was over.


	38. Five Car Pileup

**Chapter 38 – Five Car Pileup**

_Chapter summary: The Stunticons deal with the fallout of their plan, and things go from bad to worse._

– _anon_decepticon and QoS/mdperera_

_Extra thanks to Kookaburra 1701 for her EMT input on this chapter, and to all our readers and reviewers!_

* * *

One minute Wildrider was sprawled on the pavement, the next he was rising into the air. For a dizzying second he was certain his stomach had been left behind, and blearily raised his head to look.

An enormous Autobot insignia stared back at him, blood-red against a field of white.

Wildrider stared back at it dazedly, half-expecting it to open its mouth and say something. Laugh at him for crashing, maybe. _If it does that, I'll kick it in the face_.

The world lurched, and Wildrider realized he was moving, swaying to the tune of loud, thudding footsteps. Suddenly he was engulfed in a glorious cacophony of noise – sirens, screaming, alarms blaring – and closer still, right next to him, the familiar thump and hiss of working hydraulics.

_This isn't a hallucination. This is real._ "Whass goin' on?"

"I'm terribly sorry," a smooth voice replied from somewhere above him, "but I had to act quickly. There was no other way to save you."

Wildrider shook his head groggily. Something warm and wet was trickling down the side of his face. He remembered now. _The Constructicons. Hook. He'd been trying to reach them, on his…_

"Want m'bike," he slurred. "Wherizzit?"

"Your head is bleeding," the Autobot replied. "I'm taking you to a medic."

Wildrider stared up at the massive form towering above him, taking in the blue and white paintjob, the size and positioning of its wheels. _It's that Autobot racecar…the one who pretended to be Drag Strip that time. Mirror? _

"Don't want a medic." He pushed himself up into a sitting position, trying to see. "I want my bike."

Mirage paused, glancing back the way they had come. "Um, I think it's..."

Wildrider spotted the smoking wreckage at the same moment. "You broke it!" He squirmed in the Autobot's grip, kicking at the huge metal fingers. "Lemme go!"

"Please remain calm," Mirage said. "I'll see that your motorcycle is replaced. What's your name and address?"

Wildrider stopped struggling. "You'll get me a new one?" The Autobot nodded, and Wildrider grinned. _They have no idea who we are._ Trying to remember his address didn't help the throbbing ache in his head, but Wildrider was so gleeful at the prospect of a new bike that he didn't care. He told Mirage their street and apartment number and his human alias, thinking, _Stupid Autobots._

Mirage carried him back to the square, which seemed even more crowded than before. Wildrider didn't try to count anything, but there were lots more police cars, some ambulances and even a fire truck. Choppers circled overhead, and the number of humans seemed to have doubled.

Fortunately being held high above them in the Autobot's grip gave Wildrider an excellent view of his surroundings. As they drew closer he was able to pick Drag Strip, Breakdown and Dead End out of the crowd, each working their way steadily towards the others. Near the center of the square, towering over the gathered emergency vehicles, was the Autobot who'd captured Motormaster. _Dog, _Wildrider thought._ No, Hound._

"Ed! Over here!" Hound called.

A human dressed in jeans and a white shirt rushed over to him, a backpack slung over his shoulders. When the Autobot knelt down, carefully placing the motionless form of Motormaster on the grass, the human bent over him and appeared to listen for something. "What happened?" he asked.

"He yelled and grabbed his chest, then went limp and closed his eyes," Hound said. "Now he seems almost paralyzed. He mentioned his heart –"

"Oh, I have something for that," Ed replied. He reached into his pack and pulled out a brightly colored box with a heart and lightning bolt symbol on it. He tugged Motormaster's shirt up to expose his chest and spotted the half-healed knife wound. "Hmm…that will need to be seen to, but the heart condition's more important." He glanced down at the box and frowned. "I may have to shave some spots for the pads."

Wildrider perked up at that, craning his neck to see. _Will he end up all smooth and pink like Drag Strip?_ His human processor obligingly supplied a visual. _Bleah._

"Are you all right?" Mirage asked.

"Yeah," he replied. "Just got a little queasy there for a second. Can I have a Husqvarna?"

"What?" Mirage peered down at him, his blue optics bright with worry.

"You said you'd get me a new bike," Wildrider reminded him. He felt a faint tingle he suspected was a scan. "Can I have a Husqvarna?"

"That's not really…" Mirage paused, frowning guiltily. "All right. But first a medic needs to look at you."

Wildrider looked back at Motormaster, but he was sitting up and had shoved the medic away, apparently refusing any further treatment. Wildrider was about to ask the Autobot to take him over there when Mirage called out to a pair of humans exiting an ambulance nearby.

"This human is injured." Mirage lowered Wildrider gently to the ground. "He ran into my alt mode with his motorcycle and was thrown off. I believe he hit his head."

The two medics nodded, setting down their equipment. One of them leaned forward to look Wildrider in the eye while the other moved around to stand behind him. "Did he lose consciousness?"

Wildrider twisted around suspiciously, trying to keep an eye on both humans at once. Were they planning a sneak attack?

"Please hold still, sir," the medic behind him said. "We have to immobilize your head. You may have suffered a spinal cord injury."

As far as Wildrider was concerned, being immobilized was a _bad_ thing. "Nuh-uh," he said, leaping to his feet and shaking his head. The medic's face went white, and suddenly everything was spinning. Wildrider sat down hard.

When he blinked his vision clear, three familiar figures were gathered around him, their bodies forming a defensive wall between him and the crowd. Drag Strip glanced back over his shoulder at him, and Wildrider gave him a shaky thumbs-up. Breakdown's eyes were darting everywhere. Dead End looked like Dead End.

For a long moment the two groups eyed each other warily.

"Are you four together?" the first medic asked finally. The others looked at Dead End, who nodded. "Well then tell your friend we need to check him over to make sure he's okay. He could be seriously injured."

With his gestaltmates around him, Wildrider was willing to undergo the human medics' poking and prodding, although he didn't like it when they held his head and started laughing when they probed his belly. He did his best to hold still as they gave him a thorough examination and lectured him about not wearing a helmet, but when Motormaster came striding over (with the other medic and Hound right behind him) Wildrider couldn't resist jumping up and waving.

The first medic, a stout older man who'd done most of the talking, looked at his partner, a dark-skinned woman with a dour expression. She shook her head. He grimaced and turned back to Wildrider.

"All right," the man said. "We haven't found evidence of any serious injury, but due to the nature of the accident I'd advise you to let us take you to the hospital. You may have been severely injured. Sometimes symptoms don't show up for a while, so it's best to go in and make sure everything's okay."

Wildrider glanced over at the cluster of ambulances and swallowed hard, recalling the echoing halls of the repair facility where they'd taken Motormaster. He thought about having to stay in a place like that, confined to a bed, ignored except for when the repair bay staff came to perform weird medical procedures on him, separated from his gestalt except during visiting hours, forced to sleep alone, without Drag Strip or Breakdown or Dead End or even the boss for company –

"We can't afford that." Motormaster's hands curled into fists, his gaze intense enough to bore a hole in the ground at his feet.

"We can cover the cost," Hound piped up.

Mirage nodded. "Absolutely. I insist."

If it weren't for the fact that he didn't _want_ to go to the fragging hospital, Wildrider would have found Motormaster's reaction priceless – his face turned bright red, and for a second Wildrider thought he was literally going to explode.

But he also knew Motormaster would swallow his pride and accept the Autobots' offer if that was what it took to get him repaired. It wouldn't matter whether Wildrider wanted to go. If they were back on the _Nemesis_, Motormaster would be the one dragging him down to repair bay, cursing the whole way.

"I don't need to go to the hospital. I feel fine!" He looked at Motormaster, knowing he was the one he had to convince. _C'mon,_ he pleaded with his optics. _We're supposed to stay together!_

The female medic sighed, giving the male an '_I told you so'_ look. The older man shook his head. "If you're refusing transport, you have to sign a paper that says you are doing so against my professional opinion. Have someone stay with you tonight and wake you up every few hours. Have them call 911 immediately if they're unable to rouse you, if you start bleeding from the ears or nose, or if you feel any numbness or tingling in your extremities. You got all that?"

"Yeah, yeah, I got it," Wildrider said.

"Don't be stupid, kid," the woman said. "If you start feeling worse, call for help. Hospital ain't fun, but it beats dying."

That gave him pause for a moment, but he shrugged it off. She'd said _if he felt worse,_ and Wildrider felt fine. The Constructicons may have gotten away – which was probably why Motormaster looked so torqued off – but none of them were hurt, and he was getting a new motorcycle – a _Husqvarna! –_so Wildrider waved goodbye as the medics moved off in search of other injured humans to help.

When he turned back to the group, Motormaster was arguing with the remaining medic, the one called Ed, and the two Autobots, all of whom appeared to be insisting that he and Wildrider agree to be transported to the nearest hospital by them personally.

Wildrider was wondering what it would be like to actually _drive_ an Autobot – would he be allowed to use the weapons systems? Drag Strip would want the racecar, of course – when suddenly Breakdown shouted, "Look out!" and ducked behind Motormaster.

Everyone looked around in confusion, and Wildrider barely had time to notice Drag Strip striking a pose before he was blinded by a brilliant flash and a new group of humans descended on them. A woman shoved a microphone into Ed's face. "Can you give us your account of what happened here tonight, Mr...?"

"Uh…Furst. But by the time I arrived, the Decepticons had already left." He gestured at Motormaster. "This man was here the whole time."

The reporter turned to Motormaster and repeated the question, but Hound interrupted before he could answer. "You know, that reminds me – why were you running _towards_ the Decepticons?"

Motormaster hesitated, looked around and paused when his eyes met Wildrider's. "A friend of mine was in that building. I wanted to make sure he was all right."

"Oh," Hound said, glancing at Mirage. "Well, I can certainly understand that. No wonder you were in such a hurry!"

"Yeah," Motormaster replied through gritted teeth, clearly at the limit of his patience. "And we still are, so can we go now?"

* * *

They went home on a bus, which Wildrider thought later was the first hint of how bad things were about to get. He wondered why they couldn't simply have taken another cab, but when both Dead End and Drag Strip had to pool what was in their pockets to pay the fare, it became a little clearer.

And as Breakdown pointed out in a whisper, they couldn't afford to draw even more attention to themselves by taking over another cab. Wildrider understood that, but for the first time ever the motion on the bus made him feel sick, and from the way everyone else on the bus stared at him, he thought he was drawing enough attention already. In the seat beside him, Breakdown hunched his shoulders and stared down.

It seemed to take forever before they reached their building. Wildrider staggered away from the curb and clung to the nearest streetlight, taking long deep breaths until he was certain the fuel in his tanks would stay where it was supposed to be. _Frag that Mirage_. If not for the new bike, Wildrider would have been even more torqued off at him.

Imagining the new bike helped, though (in Wildrider's mind it had a missile launcher on either side and an oil sprayer at the back) so after Breakdown peeled him off the streetlight, he was able to get upstairs mostly unaided. Dead End gave him an aspirin. It tasted terrible and Wildrider spat it back out, but Motormaster made him swallow it. After that Drag Strip took him into the washracks, and Wildrider felt a little better by the time he finally collapsed into their bed. He waited until Drag Strip lay down as well and shifted closer, wanting to cuddle.

To his surprise, Drag Strip pushed him away. "Get lost," he said.

"What?" Wildrider said, sitting up. Had he done something wrong?

"I'm not interested." Drag Strip turned his back. "Besides, you're always getting damaged in the face and it looks horrible."

"You think I crashed on purpose?" Wildrider felt like hitting him.

"I think you just don't care about anything," Drag Strip said bitterly. "We lost, don't you get it? We fragging _failed_. But you just want to interface like always."

Wildrider stared at the shape of his back, faintly illuminated in the weak glow of streetlights from the window outside. Another sort of demolition derby was going on inside his head, things crashing together so fast that he couldn't quite make out what was happening. All he felt, though, was an overwhelming hurt and a need to lash out at something, anything.

"I hate you," he said quietly.

That made Drag Strip turn, slowly enough that Wildrider heard the bedsprings creak in the silence. The room was too dark for him to see Drag Strip's expression clearly, but he could tell his words had struck home. Usually Drag Strip was the one who said he hated them all, and that was only when he felt they'd all ganged up on him. Wildrider had never said that to anyone before, least of all Drag Strip.

The bedsprings squeaked again as Drag Strip got up. Without another word he walked out of the room.

Wildrider stayed motionless for what felt like a long time, and the room was even more silent with Drag Strip gone. _Well, it doesn't matter. I get the bed all to myself now_. He lay back down. Drag Strip had bought them both pillows with his earnings, back when he'd had a job, so Wildrider pulled his pillow closer and wrapped an arm around it. Maybe if he pretended it was a softer, more compliant Drag Strip, he could get to sleep.

It still took a long time for him to drift off, and he woke again what felt like only minutes later. Someone was shaking his shoulder. "Whuh?" he said. His eyes stung and he couldn't open them fully, so he couldn't see who it was.

"It's me." Breakdown sat down on the bed.

Wildrider cheered up. At least one of his teammates wanted to sleep with him. "Sure," he said drowsily and slipped an arm around Breakdown's waist, trying to pull him down onto the bed.

"What the…" Breakdown wriggled free. "I'm not here for that, you dimbulb. The medics said to wake you up because you've got a conclusion."

He did it again the next hour and the next, even though Wildrider told him not to. By then Wildrider was thoroughly fed up and even more exhausted – how was he supposed to get better if no one would let him sleep? He wondered if the door could be locked, but unfortunately there was no key. _Move something heavy in front of it, then? _Wildrider considered the bed, but the others might hear the sound and come to investigate.

That gave him an idea, though. He got down on the floor and rolled under the bed. It wasn't too comfortable, but he was so tired by then he could have slept on broken glass, and at least that way Breakdown wouldn't wake him up. Bending an elbow under his head, he dozed off again.

The arguing voices were loud enough to wake him an hour later. "…on the couch, he'd have heard something if Wildrider left the base," Breakdown was saying. Wildrider blinked, trying to focus on the two pairs of legs a few feet away from him. The light in the room was on, making it bright as high noon to his sleep-deprived eyes.

"Drag Strip sleeps very heavily, in case you haven't noticed." Dead End sounded as if Breakdown had been waking him up every hour as well. "I imagine Wildrider could have tap-danced out of the apartment without disturbing him overmuch."

Soft quick footsteps came up to the door. "His sneakers and clothes are still in the bathroom," Drag Strip said. "He'd better not have taken mine."

_As if I'd want your stupid yellow coat_. Wildrider couldn't help feeling amused, though, and waited to hear how they would organize the search party. Breakdown was saying that Wildrider wouldn't be able to walk anywhere in Drag Strip's pants _or_ shoes, when Wildrider registered a tickling sensation in his nose.

"He has to be in the apartment somewhere," Dead End said. "I don't suppose—"

Wildrider sneezed. There was a stunned silence, and the next thing he knew, hands had closed around his ankles and he was dragged out along with a lot of dust bunnies. The others stared down at him accusingly.

"What?" he said. "I just didn't want to be woken up all the time."

"Why didn't you check under the bed?" Dead End said to Breakdown.

"How was I supposed to know he'd be under there?"

"Because he's crazy, that's how," Drag Strip said. "And filthy too. _Again._ Someone else can clean him off."

"Go suck on Prime's exhaust pipe," Wildrider told him. Dead End sighed and looked at the ceiling.

"That's enough," Breakdown said tightly. "Shut up, both of you, before Motormaster hears."

_Yeah, better not wake _him _up. _Wildrider scrambled up as Drag Strip stalked back to the living-room. "Can you sleep with me, then?" he said to Dead End. If he had to be disturbed every hour, it would at least be a little easier to go back to sleep immediately afterwards if he could snuggle next to Dead End. He half-expected a refusal because Dead End was usually too prissy to sleep beside someone covered with dust, but to his surprise, after a moment's consideration Dead End nodded.

_Hah. Take that, Drag Strip_, Wildrider thought, wondering why Breakdown looked upset. Maybe he had really been looking forward to the job of waking Wildrider up every hour, whereas now Dead End could do it. Breakdown left, while Dead End switched the light off and lay down.

"Don't kick me," he said, so Wildrider angled his legs as far away as possible, hoping they wouldn't fall off the bed. It was quiet, but there wasn't much he could do about that with the TV in the living-room. He listened to his own breathing, the sound of his heartbeat and the cars outside… cars, like they had been, like they had to be again some day. _We will. Breaks will think of something_.

Motormaster seemed to share that thought, because as they were eating breakfast – dry toast and coffee – the next day, he told Breakdown to start working on another plan. That was normal, but the resentful look Breakdown shot back at him from across the table wasn't. Motormaster's large hand tightened on the handle of his coffee mug so that joints and veins stood out prominently.

"What?" he said, his voice low and taut.

"I can't do it." Breakdown spoke equally quietly, but Wildrider wanted to push his chair well back from the table, out of the line of fire. "I stayed awake all last night, thinking. Nothing came to—"

"Then stay awake all of this night. I don't care what you do as long as you—"

"I told you, I can't do it!"

Wildrider felt his limbs freeze as if liquid nitrogen had been pumped through them. He didn't dare look at Motormaster, but he heard the slow scrape of a chair and a shadow slanted across the table as Motormaster rose to his feet.

"You _will_ think of what to do next," he said softly, but Wildrider could tell he was speaking through set teeth. "If I have to stand over you every fragging minute of the day, you will. If I have to beat you into a pulp, you will. Because the alternative is to give up and let us all die, and if that's the case I might as well kill you first. Understand?"

Breakdown didn't reply. Motormaster snatched up the nearest mug – still half-full of hot coffee – and threw it at him. Breakdown jerked to one side. The mug flew past his ear and smashed into the wall just behind him.

"Understand?" Motormaster said in the same quiet tone. Breakdown nodded, jerkily. Drops of splashed coffee were spreading over his T-shirt.

"Good. I'll expect a status report later." Motormaster turned and went to his room. "And clean up that mess," was the last thing he said before closing the door.

Feeling a little more alive after his coffee – and wanting to do something to help – Wildrider cleaned up, but Breakdown only sat on the couch, staring at his hands. Dead End didn't even seem to notice the rest of them, and Drag Strip went to sulk in his room. The day passed slowly, and yet Wildrider dreaded it ending, because he could tell Breakdown had nothing to report. There was nothing to eat for lunch, either, because they had run out of potatoes.

Wildrider toasted more bread for dinner and put on another pot of coffee, wishing there was something more to do. He couldn't cook because they were out of groceries, and he couldn't buy more because he had no money. He sat beside Breakdown to nibble on the toast.

"I guess we could sail out there," Breakdown said finally. His voice was flat and defeated, with no life in it – those were the first words Wildrider had heard someone speak since breakfast, but the silence would have been preferable. "Remember when we hijacked that boat?"

Despite his often faulty memory, Wildrider remembered. He also remembered that they had been mechs at the time, huge and armed and more than capable of getting past human security measures and taking over a cruiser. But he said nothing. Breakdown was the one who had to make the status report, not him. He gave Breakdown some of his coffee.

Motormaster's expression didn't change when he heard the plan, but after a long pause he said, "I'm going to get food. You can think of a way to contact Megatron once we sail out to the ship. _And_ a way to make sure none of the flyboys use us for target practice."

"And you'd better hurry up," Drag Strip said once the door closed behind Motormaster. "Rent's due in a few days."

Breakdown was on his feet at once. "You want to be the ideas mech, go ahead. Otherwise, just keep your slagging mouth shut, okay?"

Drag Strip sneered. "Aww, upset 'cause Deaders didn't wanna spoon with you last—"

Breakdown's fist connected with the corner of his mouth, and Drag Strip staggered back with the impact. The startled look in his eyes instantly turned to one of fury. He would have paid Breakdown back with interest if Dead End and Wildrider hadn't separated the two of them, confining Drag Strip to their sleeping quarters and Breakdown to the living-room until they calmed down (or in Drag Strip's case, went back to ignoring his teammates rather than trying to pick fights with them).

_Now who's got the damaged face?_ Wildrider thought, although Drag Strip only had a bruise. One of Wildrider's eyes was still swollen shut, though other than the pain and discomfort he didn't mind. He figured all the damage had prevented the police from recognizing him as the one who'd driven the cab into the lamppost.

He looked even worse in the front-page picture in the newspaper that Motormaster brought back with their dinner. When the bundle of paper flew halfway across the living-room with a hard flick of one of Motormaster's wrists, the other Stunticons looked up, startled, but when Breakdown opened the paper Wildrider crowded closer to see. Motormaster looked furious in the photograph (much as he did at that moment), and Breakdown was almost hidden behind him, while Dead End just looked bored. Drag Strip was striking a pose and smiling, so Wildrider carefully blacked all his teeth out with the Magic Marker.

Things didn't improve the next day. Motormaster went out to get their meals and by then they all knew he was robbing humans again, either for money or for food. Wildrider's face had mostly stopped hurting, but Breakdown still hadn't come up with any kind of workable plan. He'd started scribbling on scraps of paper, which Wildrider thought was more to convince Motormaster he was actually doing something than because the scribbling helped at all. From time to time he would crumple up a piece of paper and fling it in the trash. Wildrider fished a few out and read them, but stopped when he found a scrap that said, _I'm alone. And there's no way out._

That night, Wildrider told Dead End he could go back to the room he shared with Breakdown, but Dead End was staring up at the ceiling and didn't seem to hear him. That was somehow worse than being alone, being with someone who didn't even want to talk to you. Even the cars outside seemed to have gone away. The silence pressed in around Wildrider, soft and thick, as though he had been wrapped in cotton wool and buried alive.

He started talking desperately, hardly hearing or knowing what he was saying, only aware that he couldn't take the quiet any longer. Finally Dead End turned – just his head, the rest of his body stayed as motionless as a deactivated drone – and said, "Are you going to talk or sleep?"

"Both. You know I talk in my sleep."

Dead End sighed and went back to staring at the ceiling.

* * *

The next day, Wildrider felt his insides tense up when Motormaster went out again, and not just because he was hungry. Motormaster's presence was like the regulator on an engine that was rapidly overheating, and Wildrider didn't know what would happen when he was gone. Dead End slumped on the couch, staring off into space, and Drag Strip was in their room, so Wildrider couldn't go in there and the apartment seemed to be that much smaller. _Walls closing in on me_.

Breakdown stopped pretending to write and started to draw instead, except he just made straight lines meeting each other at angles. _Squares. Boxes. Cages._ Wildrider clutched his head, which suddenly ached worse than it had done when he had crashed into the Autobot. _Mirage. _If not for him, Wildrider would still have a bike and he could have driven… well, somewhere. He brightened up, thinking he could have visited Marcelo for a beer and one of those funny cigarettes, but then he remembered Marcelo was dead.

_We're going to die too,_ he thought miserably. He couldn't even bring himself to turn on the TV.

Motormaster came back in with their lunch and Wildrider was picking at it – he had no appetite any longer – when someone knocked at the door. Everyone tensed even further, and Motormaster mouthed one word – "Shotgun" – to Dead End before he went to the door. Dead End fetched it, and Motormaster held the weapon at his side as he opened the door slowly. Wildrider craned his head to look. He almost wished it _was_ the loan shark's thugs.

Instead it was Doug, the landlord. "Hey," he said, "there's some guys downstairs with a delivery for Melanie Wildes, but they didn't have a phone number so they came bothering me." He looked annoyed. "I was watching _The Bol—_Well, I was busy."

"_The Bold and the Beautiful_?" Drag Strip said. "Aw, what a closet romantic."

"Shut up," Motormaster said to him, and then rounded on Wildrider. "What's all this about a delivery?"

Wildrider wasn't sure either – Motormaster's laserlike glare made it difficult for him to even remember his human name – but then he heard Doug say something about a motorcycle. "My new bike!" _About time, too_. "Is it a Husqvarna?" Doug looked at him blankly.

"How did you get a new bike?" Motormaster demanded.

"The Autobots replaced it." Wildrider edged around him to reach the door and slipped out. "With a better one."

"The fragging Autobots have money for that too?"

"Oh yeah!" Doug said. "I saw your pictures in the paper. It said the Autobots saved your lives—" Motormaster slammed the door in his face, making him stumble backward with a squeak, and Wildrider didn't stay to hear any more as he jogged for the elevator.

Downstairs, he signed a delivery slip without even looking and leaned over his new bike. Big and powerful, polished and gleaming, and when he closed his eyes the scent of it filled his lungs. Leather and oil and fuel. The warmth of chrome in the sun soaked through his skin.

_Nothing's going to happen to _this_ one. _Opening his eyes, he traced the curve of a side mirror and the handlebar guards. If he couldn't be the world's finest Italian sports car, having the world's finest Italian motorcycle wasn't a bad consolation prize.

The delivery van drove off with a cough of exhaust fumes. Wildrider checked that the Husky's fuel tank was full and swung a leg over it before he remembered Breakdown, alone even in their apartment and struggling to find a way out of the pit they were in. _A ride would help there_. He maneuvered the bike up into the lobby – no way was he leaving that sweet ride in the street – and that was when he noticed the mail in their slot.

Two packages, with the heavier one addressed to him. The day seemed to be getting better and better. _Like Christmas morning, _Wildrider thought as he poked experimentally at his parcel; it was soft and oblong and he didn't recognize the return address. Very curious now, he tore it open. Inside was some kind of folded-up garment and a letter.

"Dear Ms. Wildes,

Congratulations! Our committee of judges has chosen your design as the best among the hundreds submitted to the Facets of Cybertron contest. Please accept this prototype T-shirt and the prize of—"

Wildrider let out a whoop that made a woman nearby jump and almost drop her groceries. He grinned at her, but she only hurried up the stairs instead of taking the elevator. _I got a bike _and_ I won the contest! Drag Strip is gonna be so jealous. _Wildrider decided he was going to wear that T-shirt from now until the day they became mechs again, _and_ he was going to put the T-shirt on in Drag Strip's presence to really rub it in. What a day.

He almost forgot about the other package, and remembered it only when he was in the elevator. He slipped out between the doors just before they could close and grabbed the other package, which was much lighter—little more than a large envelope, with no return address.

Jumping back in to the elevator, he pressed the button repeatedly until the doors closed, and was back at the apartment less than a minute later. "Open up!" he shouted. Motormaster wrenched the door open, a fuel line throbbing in his forehead again, but before he could say anything about not yelling, Wildrider gave him the envelope.

Breakdown looked up, warily. "Is that from…"

Motormaster looked at the envelope for a long moment before he ripped it open and pulled out some large, blown-up photographs. _The loan shark_, Wildrider remembered. He'd sent them photos in an envelope with no return address as well, but somehow Wildrider didn't think Ominsky would use the same tactic a second time.

Motormaster stared at the first picture, his face immobile. He didn't even seem to be breathing, and the fuel line sank down until Wildrider could no longer see it. Slowly Dead End got to his feet, and for the first time in days he looked as though he was seeing something in their apartment rather than a nothingness far in the distance.

Motormaster looked at the second picture, spending much less time with it before he slipped it under the pile and glanced at the third. Drag Strip had been leaning out of their room to see what was happening from a safe distance, but now he straightened up without taking his eyes off Motormaster.

The only sounds in the apartment were the whisper-soft slide of the photographs against each other and Wildrider's own pulse in his ears, a sound like small hammers wrapped in thick cloth. _Boss? _he wanted to say, except his mouth wouldn't move and his throat felt as if someone had tied a knot in it. Something was wrong, very wrong.

Motormaster reached the last photograph and raised his head. His eyes looked like splinters of purple glass, cold and blank, and he didn't seem to see any of them.

"Start packing," he said. His voice was low and expressionless. "Take only what you can carry. Food, money and weapons. I want us out of here in an hour."

"What's happened?" Breakdown said so quietly that Wildrider barely heard it.

Motormaster held out the pile of photographs without a word. Wildrider forced himself to move, came closer as if approaching the edge of a smelting pool and saw what the pictures were.

_Us_. Their faces, from the front-page picture that had been in the newspaper, except blown up larger and with something scrawled across each of them. Motormaster's scowl bore the words _Motormaster - Traitor. _Across the half of Breakdown's face that was visible, someone had written_ Breakdown - Coward._ Dead End's was _Deserter, Loser_ obliterated all of Drag Strip's smile and Wildrider's was _Autobot Pet_. He let it drop as if he had touched acid.

Breakdown shook his head slowly, staring at the pictures. "They know who we are. They know where we live. They know—"

"You." Motormaster turned on his heel to face Wildrider, and his features were so twisted in fury that Wildrider's fuel pump stopped beating for a second. "You told the Autobots where we lived so you could get that fragging bike, didn't you?"

"Boss—" Wildrider wasn't normally strutless, but he couldn't stop himself backing away, his belly roiling in fear. _I never meant for this to happen—_

"Motormaster," Dead End said calmly. "If he's injured, he won't be able to keep up with us."

Wildrider swallowed through the constriction in his throat and waited, poised on a knife's edge, until Motormaster looked away. "All right." The deadly calm was back in his voice. "I'll deal with you later, Wildrider. Start packing."

"I'll take the computer." Breakdown dropped to his knees, tearing plugs free of the wall. "We might need it." Drag Strip had already disappeared into their room and Wildrider heard the closet door being flung open. He knew without asking that he wouldn't be allowed to take the television—even on the back of his new Husky, which now he didn't feel so happy about.

Motormaster went back into his room and Wildrider was left alone in the living-room except for Breakdown, who was still busy with the computer. "I'll get food," he said to Breakdown, desperate to do something to make up for his mistake. "And… could I have the TV on while we pack?" He felt like he wanted to hear it for one last time before they abandoned it.

Breakdown nodded absently as he rolled cables up and secured them with twists of wire, so Wildrider switched it on. He still held the package with his T-shirt inside, and he stuffed the whole thing down the front of his shirt before he hurried into the kitchen. In the background, _The Price is Right_ was playing. Wildrider found the half-full jar of coffee and a box of chocolate chip cookies.

The cheering of the studio audience stopped abruptly. "We interrupt your regularly scheduled program for a special news bulletin," an announcer's voice said. "Decepticons have been sighted on the Southern Freeway approaching San Francisco—"

Wildrider all but threw himself into the living-room. Breakdown was frozen, staring at the screen, and Motormaster was in the doorway of his room.

"—destination is unknown, but as always, motorists and commuters are warned not to approach, intercept or otherwise engage them. Footage of the Decepticons has been transmitted to—" The screen flickered and crackled.

"_Show us_," Drag Strip said in a harsh whisper.

"—Hostile Alien Response Teams have been notified. Reporting live—"

The visual on the screen switched from the announcer's face to the view from a news chopper. Wildrider heard the _whap-whap-whap_ as the rotors slapped the air, and another human was talking, but he didn't hear a word of it. All he saw were the few seconds of footage, the view from above. Half-blurred through dust and half-blurred because of the Decepticons' own speed, the long barrels of tank cannon and anti-aircraft guns were still visible.

_Onslaught,_ he thought. _Brawl._ Nothing else was on the freeway to obstruct their path as they plowed ahead.

Onslaught and Brawl. And where there were two members of a gestalt, the rest would be close by. He knew it as well as he knew his own name — as well as the Combaticons now knew their human faces.

Motormaster crossed the room, shotgun in hand. The news bulletin switched back to the announcer just as he half-turned and delivered a roundhouse kick to the television. It toppled backwards off its stand, tearing its plug free from the wall, and hit the ground with a crack. Smoke began to drift up from the broken components as Motormaster turned back to them.

"Everyone out," he said. "_Now_."


	39. Objects in the Mirror

_Chapter summary :The Stunticons finally cut all ties with their human lives, and find out just how much they stand to lose._

_Authors' note : __The song referenced in this chapter was actually released in the nineties. On the other hand, not only was the song used as background music during NASCAR race recaps, but if you go to YouTube and enter "Stunticon tribute", the first hit should have it playing. _

___- anon_decepticon and QoS  
_

* * *

**Chapter 39 : Objects in the Mirror**

"Everyone out. Now."

Drag Strip moved first, of course. He bolted back into his bedroom but skidded to a stop almost at once, staring in dismay at the neatly folded clothes on the bed. He couldn't take those – not without some means of carrying them anyway, and he knew without being told that Motormaster was hardly likely to allow him to take the suitcase. Or, for that matter, give him time to pack.

But there was one thing he didn't intend to be parted from under any circumstances. He grabbed the Perfect Blazer and slid his arms into the sleeves, then pivoted on his heel. The blazer flared out in a graceful golden curve. He hurried back into the living-room, feeling in his pocket for a comb.

Dead End and Wildrider were already at the door, while Breakdown had just finished unplugging the computer. Motormaster was stuffing boxes of cartridges into his pockets, but he stopped when Drag Strip held up a finger and made a dash for the bathroom.

"I'll be right out!" He slammed the door, but since that wouldn't have kept Motormaster out for a moment, he decided to be quick. The only mirror they had was in the bathroom, so even though he would have preferred something full-length, he presented the mirror with the unbruised side of his face and began combing his hair.

Provided the grooming session didn't involve waxing and wasn't being done by someone he was torqued off at – like his idiot teammates – it made Drag Strip feel a little better. And Primus knew he needed to feel better. Especially after he realized just what those idiot teammates had done. They'd all but drawn a map for the Combaticons, and he'd been called a loser as a result. He scowled at the mirror, but didn't like how that made him look, so he glared at the bathtub instead.

From the start, they'd made mistakes. Perhaps none of those mistakes would have been fatal individually, but put them together and they were like flames and gasoline. Breakdown had used a hacked communications satellite to contact the Decepticon base… and then used the same satellite to send garbled Cybertronian signals for Soundwave to investigate. Of course the Combaticons had been monitoring that particular satellite's transmissions by then, waiting to see what would happen when Frenzy and the Constructicons arrived.

Dabbing the insides of his wrists with a sampler bottle of _Givenchy Pour Homme_, Drag Strip thought they might still have gotten away with it, if only the newspapers hadn't reported on the humans who'd rushed _towards_ the 'cons. And that picture of the five of them together had been the final rivet in their collective casket. He didn't ever need to see it again – it was as though the photograph was imprinted on the insides of his eyelids. Breakdown hiding, Dead End bored, Motormaster looking as though he was about to tear both camera and cameraman apart with his bare hands at any moment.

Onslaught would have figured out who they were at once. _Onslaught? Frag, _Brawl_ could have done it. _Still, the Combaticons might not have been able to trace them – the newspaper article didn't mention their human names – if that moron Wildrider hadn't presented Mirage with their address.

And if the article mentioned Mirage replacing Wildrider's bike – which of course it had, because humans just couldn't get enough of how sickeningly _generous_ and _honorable_ the Autobots were – all Swindle had to do was to check the records of motorcycle dealerships. Drag Strip whipped a scarf from his pocket and tied it around his neck, wondering if any of his teammates realized the enormity of the parts they'd played in their failure. It still galled him that _his_ photo had been the one with "Loser" scrawled on it.

Remembering his teammates made him notice just how quiet the apartment was, though. He looked out of the bathroom, suddenly realizing he'd spent more time in there than he'd intended. The living-room was empty, the front door ajar. In the distance he heard the _ping_ of the elevator.

Drag Strip yelped and flung himself through the doorway. The elevator was closing as he approached it at a run, so he twisted around and slipped edgewise between the doors just before they could shut. Struggling not to show how hard he was breathing, he risked a wary glance at Motormaster. At the very least, he expected some sarcastic comment about how the team would have been better off if they'd left him behind.

Motormaster didn't even seem to notice he'd arrived, though, and although the lack of punishment should have filled Drag Strip with relief, he felt just as unnerved as the elevator made its slow, creaking descent. He looked surreptitiously at the others, and noticed they were all carrying something. Motormaster had his shotgun and Breakdown's arms were full of the computer. Even Dead End had a box of food supplies.

Only Drag Strip and Wildrider had nothing, but before Drag Strip could feel any kind of solidarity towards his former roommate, he remembered that Wildrider _did_ have something – a brand-new Husqvarna. For the first time Drag Strip felt guilty about his lengthy grooming session. He hated being the only one without something to contribute towards the team's future.

_No, the team's survival._

The elevator doors opened and Motormaster stepped out into the lobby, gaze flicking from side to side before he lifted a hand and gestured for the other Stunticons to join him. Wildrider went at once to the bike that still leaned against the wall, shining where the sunlight from a dusty window touched it. Drag Strip envied him the wheels.

"Breakdown, flag a cab," Motormaster said. "Once we've got a ride we'll figure out where to go."

"Wait," Drag Strip heard himself say. Everyone glanced at him – Motormaster with a swat-the-Insecticon expression – but Drag Strip's mind worked as fast as his frame. "The woman in the deli has a pickup. Why don't we take that?"

As the smallest of the Stunticons, Drag Strip had always known that size was important – not just for intimidating others, but for rolling over them when necessary. Even in his alt-mode, even with blinding speed and a forcefield on his side, a pickup would have given him a fight. So when he remembered that the woman in the deli had one, it only made sense that they take it.

He recalled too late that Motormaster was fragging that woman, and might want the rest of them to leave her alone. But after a moment, Motormaster's unreadable expression hardened, the corners of his mouth tightening, and Drag Strip – with a lifetime's experience in interpreting such signs – knew what he would say.

"Fine." He tucked the shotgun against his body where it would be less visible. "Let's go. Wildrider, once we get the pickup, keep us in sight but don't stay close." He strode out of the building and headed for the deli, so fast that even Drag Strip had to hurry to keep a pace behind him. _Ideal position – witness the drama but stay out of the line of fire._

Motormaster entered the deli and the woman looked up from behind the counter. She had been wrapping a large platter of bagels in cling film, but she stopped and stared at them. Everyone in the deli was gawking as well, since they could see the shotgun Motormaster's large frame hid from the woman's view.

"What do you want?" she said coldly. _Lovers' quarrel?_ Drag Strip wondered. Perhaps she'd finally compared Motormaster to his teammates – more specifically, to one teammate in particular – and he'd come up very much lacking.

"The keys to your pickup," Motormaster said without preamble.

The woman just looked at him before shaking her head a little. Drag Strip had been eyeing the bagels, which had already been sliced and filled and looked quite tasty, but now he heard chairs being pushed back furtively behind them as people started to leave.

"Stop wasting my time, Tom," the woman said. "And get out. You're scaring my customers."

Motormaster's eyes narrowed. "Stop wasting _my_ time, Val," he said softly. "And give me the keys. I won't ask you again."

"Good," Val said. "I won't agree—"

The shotgun whipped up, the stock lodging against Motormaster's shoulder. The tip of the barrel was only inches away from Val's face, and Motormaster, true to his word, didn't ask again. He only sighted down the length of the barrel and curled his finger around the trigger.

Val looked as though she'd been shot already – her face was utterly fixed and her eyes unblinking. One of the few remaining customers screamed and was told by Dead End to kindly be quiet, but Val didn't say a word. Slowly, she reached into a pocket and the jingle of the keys was the only sound in the suddenly hushed deli.

"Breakdown," Motormaster said, and Breakdown peeked out from behind him just long enough to grab the keys. "Where is it?" he said to Val.

"Parked just out front." She spoke without even moving her lips.

Motormaster lowered the shotgun, but even as he turned to leave, Drag Strip had another good idea. "Money," he said. "We can get that here." He pointed at the cash register. Val's mouth dropped half open and she looked at him as though he had kicked her.

"What?" Drag Strip said to her. "We need it a lot more than you do." Especially if they had to find a new base somewhere else, to begin all over again with little more than the clothes they wore. He waited expectantly, but Motormaster's head had tilted forward until he seemed to be studying his dusty shoes for some reason. A large hand tightened around the shotgun's barrel until Drag Strip began to be genuinely concerned about the weapon ever firing properly again.

"Give me the money," Motormaster said finally, without looking up.

Val's stunned gaze snapped around at him again, but when he still stared at the floor she finally turned to the cash register. She stuffed a handful of bills into a paper bag and shoved that across the counter.

"Anything more you want?" she said, biting each word off. Motormaster reached sideways, snatched up the bag and strode out.

Drag Strip snagged a bagel and bit into it, hoping the cheese was low-fat, and followed, pleased at his quick thinking and correct guess. He'd known all along what Motormaster had been doing with Val. No wonder the overgrown bully had looked so sheepish at the end – that had been the lamest stickup Drag Strip had ever seen.

Motormaster shook it off fast when they found the pickup, though. It was a dark green Ford F-150, nowhere near as fast as Wildrider's bike but much more blocky and powerful. Motormaster scrambled into the back while Breakdown let himself inside. He seemed to have some difficulty unlocking the passenger-side door, though, and Drag Strip quickly went from impatient to annoyed. He had no choice but to leap into the truck bed too, although Breakdown managed to open the door at that very moment and Dead End got in.

The engine started, and Breakdown pulled out in a sharp turn that had Drag Strip stumbling against the side of the truck bed. He caught himself just in time and sat down, keeping one hand on the side panel. Motormaster crouched like an animal about to spring, the shotgun held across his feet.

When they'd still had their old frames, Breakdown had always been the most careful driver unless they were in a fight, at which point caution didn't matter. But when he had scouted ahead, he'd obeyed the rules of the road and never engaged the humans, trying his best to pass unnoticed (as unnoticed as a beautiful blue-and-white Lamborghini with a Decepticon symbol on its hood could ever be).

Now, though, he peeled off as if Bruticus himself was in crushing range. He sped through a red light and took 6th Street south. The pickup's fender hit a garbage can on the side of the road and sent that flying through the air. Drag Strip appreciated dangerous driving and wholesale destruction as much as anyone, but now he wondered how long it would take for a cavalcade of police cars to catch up with them.

_Then again, we'd be safer with cops than with Combaticons. _

A siren wailed just as they reached the access road leading to the James Lick Freeway, and a police car sped out of a side street. That made Breakdown slam the gas. The pickup roared ahead, smoke spewing from its exhaust.

But even at top speed, it wasn't as fast as a police interceptor. The distance between them narrowed to forty feet, then thirty. Breakdown tried dodging between other vehicles – those which weren't swerving out of the way to avoid them – but the firework flash of the police car's lightbar crept steadily closer, and the siren's howl achieved an echo effect when another car joined the chase.

Drag Strip clung to the side of the truck bed, wind whipping his carefully arranged hair, and watched the police cars warily. He knew they wouldn't try to pit the pickup – that kind of maneuver wouldn't work against a large heavy vehicle – and the police officers wouldn't try to shoot them either unless they shot first. That was why Motormaster kept the shotgun down and only stared impassively at their pursuers.

But they all knew it was only a matter of time before the police cars stopped merely dogging them and _did_ something. Drag Strip risked a glance ahead at the road unfurling before them, but Wildrider was nowhere in sight. Breakdown had given up even trying to dodge and was now barreling straight ahead, throwing every ounce of the pickup's horsepower into raw speed.

"Pull over!" one of the cops shouted at them—the cars were now close enough that they didn't need a bullhorn to hear him, but Drag Strip cupped a hand behind his ear and raised his brows, putting on his most earnestly bewildered expression. Breakdown's response came in a good second—he rolled down the window and turned the radio up.

Metallica's "Fuel" blasted from the pickup's speakers. Drag Strip grinned, though he lost it when Motormaster glanced up and he realized a chopper was now tailing them as well. Squinting against the sunlight's glare, Drag Strip tried to make out details.

"'S not Vortex," Motormaster said. "He wouldn't just be flying."

That was true enough, but it made Drag Strip wish they could do something, anything about their pursuers instead of simply adding to the collection. An abrupt swerve off the freeway might lose the police cars, if not the chopper. But there was a considerable difference between trying that kind of maneuver with a Tyrell P-34 open-wheeled racecar built to turn on a dime and trying it with a Ford pickup.

_Besides, at least no one's going to lay down spike strips across the freeway._

By now the pickup was bulling ahead so fast that the vehicles on either side seemed to be parked along the freeway. Drag Strip wedged himself back into a corner of the truck bed, suddenly aware that if Breakdown came to an abrupt stop, anything in the truck bed would probably end up airborne.

_Best not to think about that_. Even though he had applied antiperspirant that morning, it didn't seem to be having much effect. And he didn't need his nav system to know where Breakdown was headed – towards the Bay Bridge, which was a great stretch for racing but not for evasive maneuvers of any kind. His heart thudded hard. Thankfully the cops weren't trying to shoot out their tires – that would have sent the pickup fishtailing, slamming into other vehicles.

"_Fuel is pumping engines, burning hard, loose and clean…_"

The Bay Bridge loomed up ahead and they were on it in the next second. The pickup raced on, swerving and weaving between vehicles but the police cars – smaller and more maneuverable – easily kept pace. One of them stayed to the side and the second hung on their bumper as if it had been magnetized.

"_And I burn, churning my direction, quench my thirst with gasoline…_"

The explosion blasted metal apart and popped tires—and it was so loud that Drag Strip thought for an instant that they had been hit, before the police car behind them flipped sideways in a cloud of smoke. Its momentum sent it slamming into the bridge's parapet wall hard enough to bend the structural steel outwards.

Even through the smoke, he saw the blocky shape of a tan jeep. Motormaster reached at once for the shotgun, but froze when the massive cannon of Swindle's scatter-blaster swiveled to focus on them. The music abruptly stopped.

"Hit the brakes, Breaks!" Swindle shouted, and if he had been in alt-mode Drag Strip knew he would have been grinning. Dead End pulled himself halfway through the open passenger-side window, twisting around so he could sit there with one hand gripping the roof-rack. His other hand was out of sight, but Drag Strip knew he wouldn't fire. Swindle didn't exactly have a lot of weak spots – especially considering how little damage their human weapons could do – and they would only get one chance.

Motormaster rose, one hand on the pickup's roof and his feet spread to keep his balance as the pickup hurtled on. "Pull alongside and I'll jump over," he shouted at Swindle. "Just leave the rest of 'em alone!"

"No," Swindle called back cheerfully, and fired a warning shot past Motormaster's head. He jerked sideways and nearly fell over the side of the truck bed. "I don't like that deal!"

Motormaster dropped back to his knees, grabbed the paper bag Val had given him and shoved a hand inside. "Then try this one!"

With a hard flick of his arm, he flung the handful of notes outward in a spray of fluttering green. Swindle jinked automatically in that direction, just enough to present the side of a front tire to them for a second.

In that second, Dead End sighted and fired. There was a heavy, muffled _pop_ and suddenly Swindle was skidding out of control, one tire flapping on its rim. Motormaster raised a hand in a mocking salute as the pickup put on a fresh burst of speed, outdistancing the immobilized jeep in seconds.

Any elation Drag Strip might have felt vanished almost as fast as Swindle did, though, when Dead End called out, "We're nearly out of fuel!"

Motormaster said nothing, probably because there was nothing they could do about it. Even if they were running on empty, they had no choice but to keep on running. Naturally the cops had heard that, because the other police car kept pace with them, apparently waiting to arrest them all when their engine finally died. Drag Strip tried not to think about that either, and glanced to one side instead, at the deep blue water and a ferry that was sailing below the bridge.

Beyond the ferry, a shadow streaked across the water.

Drag Strip's gaze jolted up, but the mech was too high – and flying too fast – for him to see any details of weaponry. It wasn't Vortex or Blast-Off, who would have flown in alt-mode, but that was small consolation, given how deadly the other two members of the Combaticons were.

_If they land on the bridge, it's over,_ he thought, but thankfully the mech flew on, leaving only an afterburner trail in his wake, and moments later the pickup reached the Yerba Buena Tunnel, the halfway point of the Bay Bridge. The tunnel opened before them like a mouth stretched wide to swallow them, and Drag Strip tried to ignore the sudden clenching of his stomach at the thought. Even if they were hemmed in there with absolutely no chance of escape other than driving onward to the tunnel's end, at least no one could track them from above or charge at them in a broadside attack.

Fast as they were racing, it seemed to take a long time before the pickup burst out of the tunnel and onto the second half of the Bay Bridge. Drag Strip remembered there was a toll road at the end of that bridge, and wondered how they would get past that. _And where the frag is Wildrider?_

He hadn't seen or heard the Husqvarna since they'd started off, and for the first time he felt genuine fear. Had the Combaticons seen Wildrider? Blast-Off could spot ground targets from orbit. _Did they… _

_Did they kill him?_

Suddenly he wished Wildrider hadn't been such a jerk to him earlier.

The traffic was reaching congestion point, which meant they were close to the toll plaza on the western side of the Bay Bridge. The pickup had no choice but to slow down, although Breakdown leaned on the horn and maneuvered past other vehicles as best he could. They were close enough to see the toll booths in the distance when the engine sputtered.

"Hold on!" Breakdown yelled, and that was the only warning they got before he spun the wheel. The pickup fishtailed, smashing into a Toyota Tacoma so hard that Drag Strip's teeth came together with a snap, and the Tacoma itself was rammed into a sedan. The pickup came to a halt, rocking on its tires from the impact, and the engine coughed futilely before it went silent. The police car stopped as well.

Before the cops could scramble out and fire at them, Drag Strip leaped to his feet. He'd spotted a flash of red flung about inside the Tacoma's truck bed, and now that the world had stopped lurching from side to side he saw the gas can clearly. _If only it's full! _

"Hold it!" one of the cops shouted. Around them, cars were pulling away although they had nowhere to go; there were far too many vehicles lined up at the toll booths already. Without pausing, Drag Strip leaped into the back of the Tacoma.

Motormaster stood up again, leaving the shotgun at his feet where the cops couldn't see it—gambling, Drag Strip guessed, that human law enforcement personnel wouldn't shoot another human who was apparently unarmed. He held his hands up. _Good, keep distracting them_, Drag Strip thought as he hopped out of the Tacoma with the wonderfully heavy gas can.

"Get out of the truck!" another police officer shouted at Motormaster. "Get on the ground!"

"Didn't you see the fragging Decepticon chasing us?" Motormaster yelled back, far more loudly. "We're trying to get away from them!"

Keeping his head low, Drag Strip ducked beside the pickup and unscrewed the cap of the gas tank as fast as he could. More sirens split the air, discordant sounds warbling in and out of each other as more police cars arrived from the other end of the plaza, but Drag Strip had already pushed the spout of the gas can into the pickup's tank. _Hurry, hurry!_

But he had a feeling they were already too late. The cars around them had drawn away enough that the cops would start firing at their tires at any moment. Decepticons or no Decepticons, human law enforcement personnel were as single-minded as drones, and weren't likely to let them get away. A massive tanker had stalled in the trucks-only lane, blocking that, but another toll lane cleared just enough for police cars to race through to surround them. All the other lanes were solid with vehicles.

_No way out_, Drag Strip thought. Breakdown twisted the ignition key and the engine turned over, but nothing else happened. _Hurry! _Drag Strip thought again, listening to the gasoline glugging into the tank.

He heard a faint whistling sound and looked up to see a shadow fall over the cars just twenty feet ahead of them. And Brawl descended like a thunderbolt.

He transformed as he fell, and the roofs of SUVs crumpled like paper under the massive Leopard tank's mass and momentum. The glass of windshields shattered. If anyone inside the crushed vehicles were still alive to scream, Drag Strip didn't even hear them over the hammering of his own heart. The can fell from his numb fingers and gasoline gurgled out over his shoes, ruining them.

Caterpillar treads turned and Brawl trundled off the mass of mangled metal, heading towards them. He didn't even seem to notice the chaos he had left behind—the toll booth operators had fled and any vehicles left undamaged were struggling to get away, with the result that two of them crashed into each other. Smoke began to drift up from the other side of the toll plaza, and Drag Strip's heart sank as he realized they weren't going to get away.

He glanced behind them instead. Two police cars had pulled up, but before the cops could even open their doors Brawl's turret gun swiveled in their direction.

"Fragging stay out of this, got it?" he roared, and fired a warning shot that blew up the engine of one car. The cops scrambled out and ran for cover. Brawl chuckled and shot at them a little more.

"Get into the back, Drag Strip," Motormaster said softly, and that broke Drag Strip's paralysis. He was in the truck bed the next moment, but before they could reverse and escape Brawl's guns pivoted back to them.

"Onslaught wants you brought in alive." His voice sounded like slabs of rusted iron scraping together. "And we said sure. 'Cause the longer you're alive, the more you'll scream."

Before any of them—even Drag Strip—could react, the guns split the air with a high-pitched shriek. It sounded like razor-edged steel slicing wet glass, and seemed to come at them from all sides, echoing off anything in the vicinity and intensifying all the time. Drag Strip felt as though invisible skewers were drilling into his eardrums, and wires twisting down through the roots of his teeth.

He clapped both hands to his ears and yelled —partly in a futile effort to drown out the sound but mostly because he had never felt so much pain. He'd always known Brawl had a sonic weapon, which was all the more effective because of the stereo effect produced by the twin guns, but he'd never been the target of it until that moment.

Motormaster staggered to his feet with a visible effort, shotgun in hand and a thin trickle of blood running from his right ear. "Frag you!" he roared back at Brawl, and fired from the hip. Both barrels discharged, and the blast was far louder than the electronic screech.

It had absolutely no physical effect on Brawl other than scratching his paintjob—unlike Swindle's alt-mode, the Leopard tank had no weak points. But it was more than enough to trigger Brawl's always short temper. With a wordless bellow he ended the sonic attack and turned the turret gun—the far more deadly one—to aim at them.

_Because Motormaster would rather see us all dead than in the hands of the Combaticons,_ Drag Strip thought numbly. And although the Combaticons needed them alive to have any sort of bargaining chips in the never-ending struggle for superiority among the Decepticons, Brawl was now operating on instinct alone, the instinct to destroy anything in his path. A low mechanical growl, like a distant thunder, thrummed from within the tank—the sound of his turret cannon preparing to fire.

Breakdown turned the ignition key again. The engine caught, coughing into life, but Drag Strip knew they would never get out of firing range in time.

A howl of glee rang out over the background growl of cars speeding up to get away from Brawl, and the motorcycle's engine roared in counterpoint. Balanced on top of the stalled tanker, Wildrider zoomed along it, using the tanker's length to pick up as much speed as possible before he leaped off it, straight at Brawl.

The Husqvarna struck the turret cannon just as it spat blinding fire, and the cannon swiveled automatically. Even though the blast missed them, a wave of scorching air washed over Drag Strip and the quakelike roar of the explosion nearly completed the work of deafening him.

Wildrider had been flung forward by the impact, and ended up clutching the turret cannon rather than the Husqvarna's handlebars for support. Before he could recover and get off the tank somehow, Brawl transfomed. The flat surface under Wildrider's feet instantly tilted ninety degrees, and the Husqvarna fell away from under him.

He clutched desperately at the cannon. Brawl tried to reach behind himself and grab Wildrider. Finding that futile, he stamped down hard on the Husqvarna and kicked the wreckage fifty feet away for good measure.

"You…" Still clinging to the cannon with both arms, Wildrider kicked Brawl's turret. "You… _Autobot!_"

Brawl snarled in response, pivoting as he again reached behind him. That time the tips of his huge fingers brushed the surface of Wildrider's denim jacket, and Wildrider's body swayed with the movement. But in that moment Brawl's back was to them.

"Now!" Motormaster said, his voice low and urgent, and the pickup all but leaped forward. Breakdown drove straight ahead and smashed the brakes a second later. A headlight cracked as the pickup thumped against the back of Brawl's leg, but Motormaster sprang up onto the pickup's roof. And Drag Strip knew his target wasn't the thick armor plating covering Brawl's leg, but the narrow transformation seam at the back of his knee.

Motormaster shoved the shotgun's barrel into the transformation seam. Brawl felt it and started to turn just as Motormaster fired.

Brawl's leg buckled. Armor plates came together like the jaws of a trap, crushing the shotgun's barrel between them, and as Brawl toppled, his fall wrenched the now-useless shotgun out of Motormaster's hands. The recoil knocked Motormaster off-balance and he fell back into the truck bed.

He landed awkwardly, lips drawing back from his teeth with pain, but when Brawl hit the ground the world shuddered beneath them. Wildrider had managed to drop as Brawl was falling, when he was close enough to the ground to land without injury and roll away. Breakdown yelled at him to hurry.

Brawl drew his electron gun from subspace even as he struggled back up to a sitting position, but Wildrider had reached the pickup by then. Drag Strip grabbed his outstretched hands and pulled him over the side of the truck bed.

"Go!" Motormaster yelled, and the pickup's tires nearly skidded as Breakdown spun the wheel in a tight turn before accelerating away. One of the lanes of the toll plaza was open, the one that had let in the police cars, and although it was almost choked solid with smoke now, there was no other way out. Brawl fired at them but missed. The pickup rocketed ahead toward the single open gate.

Over the toll plaza, like a grey specter emerging from grey smoke, Vortex appeared. They had one glimpse of him before the pickup sped through the toll gate and beneath the hovering chopper. The highway was jammed with vehicles, but Breakdown didn't bother cutting their speed before he slewed right—the pickup teetering dangerously—and fender-slammed a stalled car out of the way.

Vortex turned at once in mid-air and flew after them. He had no obstacles in his way, and Drag Strip knew that the moment he was above them, a wind funnel would suck them up like dust into a vacuum cleaner. Dead End leaned out of the window, gun in hand.

"The rotors!" Motormaster shouted. "Get the rotors!"

Dead End fired again and again, but Vortex was in his element and kept his position, weaving easily from side to side to dodge the shots. When Dead End's gun ran out of bullets, he slammed another clip home, but the moment's pause was more than enough for Vortex.

"Oh, is it my turn to shoot now?" he sang out. "Hope your forcefields are working!"

The lasers mounted on either side of his cockpit fired simultaneously. One blast missed them.

The other didn't.

What felt like an invisible but molten iron bar slammed through Drag Strip's chest. The impact sent him staggering back against the pickup's rear windshield. _What… what just happened?_ He couldn't move or breathe or even feel anything, and why was Wildrider staring at him like that?

Slowly, not as if he was consciously looking down but as if his head was suddenly too heavy to support on his neck, his vision tilted forward. For the first time he didn't notice whether his blazer was safe or not, because he saw his chest instead.

_No blood_, he thought. _That's good. I'm all right. _Then he realized that the only reason there was no blood was because the laser had instantly cauterized the damage. It had burned through his shirt and skin and frame all the way to his spine, and air rushed through the hole in his chest.

The world lurched around him. He thought for a moment that the pickup was starting to roll sideways, but he knew almost at once that he was falling instead. He just couldn't feel it. He couldn't feel anything below his chest, couldn't feel anything at all except terror.

_I've lost._

* * *

_Authors' note: __Please review, folks. We're working hard to wrap this story up, and we'd like to know that more than a handful of you are still reading it._


	40. End of the Road

_Chapter summary : The Stunticons need to escape their enemies, save Drag Strip's life and go home. Two of out three isn't bad..._

_Authors' notes : Thanks so much for the reviews, everyone! We appreciate them a lot, so please let us know what you think of the last remaining chapters. _

_This chapter references the G1 episodes "Cosmic Rust", "Starscream's Brigade" and "A Prime Problem".  
_

* * *

**Chapter 40 : End of the Road**

Motormaster flung out his arm, but Wildrider was faster and caught Drag Strip before he could drop to the floor of the truck bed. Turning to stare back at the helicopter, Motormaster moved reflexively to put his subordinates at his back, although that wouldn't make any real difference to Vortex's weaponry.

In the back of his mind, he wondered which was worse—a wind funnel that would suck them all up or lasers which would pick them off one by one. The pickup roared ahead at well over a hundred miles an hour, but Vortex gained on them easily.

"_Hold on!"_ Breakdown yelled, and slammed the brakes. Motormaster barely had time to brace himself against the back of the truck bed. The pickup almost fishtailed as Breakdown killed their speed abruptly, but Vortex, not expecting that, zoomed overhead.

Breakdown spun the wheel and smashed the gas pedal. Jolting violently ahead, the pickup plunged sideways off the highway and down an access road—towards a cloverleaf interchange. Vortex spun, trying to track them again. Motormaster turned around, arms spread and hands gripping the sides of the truck bed to brace Drag Strip and Wildrider.

Drag Strip lay motionless across Wildrider's lap, his eyes closed and his face pallid. For a moment it felt as though cold liquid lead filled Motormaster's fuel lines. _No, _was all he could think. _No. _In all his life—albeit a short one which probably wouldn't last much longer—he hadn't lost any of his team.

"He's okay," Wildrider said, but that didn't make Motormaster feel any better. Not only was Drag Strip obviously _not_ okay—the wound in his chest was leaking now—but he'd seen that desperate, unbalanced look in Wildrider's eyes before. It always meant the same thing, that Wildrider was skating the thin line between sanity and madness because he couldn't bear what was happening in reality.

Cold fury replaced shock in an instant. Motormaster wanted to beat some sense back into him, but before he could move, Breakdown put on a final burst of speed that had the pickup's engine snarling beneath the hood, pluming smoke that was whipped away instantly by the wind.

Vortex shot at them again. One laserbolt struck an already-wrecked Greyhound bus, turning it to white-hot shrapnel, and another blasted a chunk out of the road where they had been an instant earlier. They were moving so fast Motormaster barely saw it happen, and in seconds they were beneath the cloverleaf. He knew that at their speed, they would all be killed if—or when—they crashed, but Breakdown wove in and out of traffic, missing other vehicles by bare inches.

Motormaster never even heard the blaring horns, human screams and sirens, not over the grating roar of the pickup's engine pushed to its limits and the thudding of his own pulse in his ears. He did register the thunderclap as lasers struck part of the cloverleaf's upper surface, though. Vortex wasn't playing games any longer.

But the blast missed them again as Breakdown took a left turn, steered in a tight circle and immediately headed back in the direction from which they had come. The wreckage alone—normal when the Stunticons were driving in any shape or form—clearly marked their path. Well off the highway, a fire engine was spraying the flames that shot up from another crashed tanker. More crumpled cars littered the road, but Breakdown steered around them before he put on another burst of speed.

Motormaster dared to breathe then, though when he glanced over his shoulder he could still see the firework display of flashing strobe lights near the ruins of the toll plaza in the distance. He'd surrender to the human police willingly if it meant escaping Vortex and getting help for Drag Strip. They'd been lucky so far to deal with the Combaticons individually, but they had to get away before the rival team came together. The Combaticons didn't even need to form Bruticus to be a threat; Motormaster knew very well how gestalts shored up each other's weaknesses. When the Combaticons closed ranks under Onslaught's command—

Two hundred feet ahead of them, a huge black Mack truck lay on its side, engine coughing smoke. Its shadow seemed to move independently of its shattered frame, though, sliding across the width of the road. Then Motormaster saw what actually cast that shadow.

Surprisingly graceful for such a large vehicle, Onslaught rolled out from behind the Mack's ruins and turned to face them. He said nothing, but his anti-aircraft guns came to bear on them and a thousand points of sunlight gleamed on the shattered glass beneath his wheels.

The pickup braked so hard that Motormaster was thrown forward, and flung out a hand just in time to stop himself from slamming face-first into the cab. He heard Drag Strip's whimper and his own harsh breathing.

He couldn't look away from the Combaticon who faced them.

"Don't bother getting out." Onslaught actually sounded calm. "We'll lift that vehicle with all of you in-"

To their right, the fire engine's hose swiveled towards them. On high alert, Motormaster caught the movement in his peripheral vision. Onslaught noticed it as well, guns twitching as if to change direction.

But before he could do anything further, a high-pressure jet of oil spurted like a rocket. The force was enough to slap Onslaught's guns momentarily in the other direction; he caught himself and they swiveled back, but by then the oil was spraying over his entire frame, streaming over his optical sensors. The fire engine trundled closer as it continued to unleash a geyser of glistening oil, and Motormaster saw the red insignia on its side.

He leaned over the edge of the truck bed so Breakdown could see him in the side mirror, and the pickup's window, fractured with a spiderweb of cracks, rolled down at once. "Get us out of here," he said and dropped back to his knees.

The rumble as the engine started up again vibrated through his frame, and Drag Strip moaned in pain. Motormaster had never been so relieved to hear a sound. At least the idiot was still alive, though from the way his chest was leaking he might not be for much longer.

_Got to stop that. _Grabbing a handful of the yellow cloth at Drag Strip's shoulder with one hand, Motormaster took a hold of the sleeve with the other and yanked with all his strength. The cloth ripped away and Drag Strip let out a wail of agony.

"My…" His voice was thin and strengthless. "My blazer—"

Motormaster couldn't believe what he had just heard. "Shut up or I'll gag you with it," he said, and crumpled the cloth into a crude pad to press down over the damage. _Better not have him jolting and squealing again,_ Motormaster thought. He tore off one of his own sleeves and used it to secure the makeshift bandage.

Still holding Drag Strip's shoulders, Wildrider looked up at him. "We should do CPR."

Motormaster had no idea what that was, so he didn't know whether to take the suggestion as a sign of incipient madness or an indication that Wildrider was stepping back on to the right side of the line again. "What the frag is CPR?"

"Chest Pressing Routine. I saw it on TV."

"You wanna cause more chest damage, you go ahead." Hoping the makeshift bandage would stop the leak for now, Motormaster gripped the top of the cab and got back to his feet to see how far they were from the fight. The _real_ fight. Whatever they'd gone through with humans had been a mere skirmish compared to the confrontations they'd had with the Combaticons.

With little room to turn on the highway, and not wanting to expose Drag Strip any further, Breakdown was reversing slowly, but they weren't out of the line of fire yet. For the moment, though, Onslaught's attention was distracted by another Protectobot—the helicopter had flown up behind him while he'd shot at the fire truck. Its white undercarriage spat out a length of chain that wrapped around Onslaught's arms, locking tight.

Motormaster had a moment to remember how he'd done that once, to abduct an Autobot on Megatron's orders, before the chopper spun and flew off, evidently trying to yank Onslaught off his feet. The road was slippery with oil and he might have succeeded if Onslaught hadn't simply thrown himself flat first, rolling over to get his hands up to his chest. He clamped both fists around the chain and began hauling it in.

Although his specialty was strategy, the Combaticon leader was _strong_. Motormaster knew that from personal experience, and now the Protectobot 'copter seemed to be finding out as well. Rotors a blur, he struggled to stay in the sky, but Onslaught reeled the chain in yard after yard.

Suddenly the Protectobot released the chain. Onslaught hadn't been expecting that, but since he'd been all but lying on the road already, he only thudded back against the asphalt. The 'copter whirled to face him and was nearly knocked out of the sky as Onslaught flung the chain back like a whip, making the Protectobot weave wildly to avoid it.

_Good enough. _They were both engaged and the fire truck was too damaged to pursue them. "Go!" Motormaster said through his teeth and Breakdown threw the throttle open.

Because most of his attention was on Onslaught, he didn't even notice the police car that had driven up behind them. Wildrider, who was facing in that direction, _did _see, but his warning yell came too late.

Breakdown mashed the brakes, but a moment later the pickup's rear end slammed into the interceptor. Glass crunched, and the police car rocked back with the impact, but what made Motormaster's fuel pump lurch was the gurgling of fluid beneath the pickup's undercarriage. Something had broken—a fuel line, with their luck, which meant they had to get out before a spark turned the pickup into a fireball. In any case, the vehicle didn't seem driveable any longer.

But maybe they could take the police car instead. He turned to look at it and froze. The Autobot emblem glared up at him, so huge it seemed to fill the world with red.

"You're to be taken into custody." It wasn't Prowl; it was another Protectobot, but that didn't make any difference. "The humans say you—"

The whap-whap-whap of rotors made him break off, and for a moment Motormaster thought the Protectobot 'copter was approaching. _Maybe we can get them to airlift Drag Strip to a repair facility,_ he thought before he realized the helicopter was coming in too fast, and from the wrong direction.

Vortex covered the distance between them like a grey missile, but the Protectobot was just as fast. His frame trembled once, components shifting as he tried to transform, but the damage he'd taken prevented that. Instead, the double-barreled cannon on his trunk swiveled to face the 'copter. Vortex fired at him, but the Protectobot took the shots with little more than a grunt, ignoring the smoking rents as the lasers bit into his frame.

Then the cannon blasted, once. A tidal wave of compressed air sent Vortex whirling over the cloverleaf as if Superion had kicked him. Motormaster couldn't even feel relieved, because the cannon swung back to point at him instead.

Even though he knew the Protectobot would never have shot him, he also knew they couldn't escape.

"Surrender _now_," the Protectobot said. He had activated his siren, and the warbling wail of it seemed to come from every direction—before the sound resolved itself into a second siren. A red-and-white ambulance raced out from beneath the cloverleaf.

Motormaster was on his feet before he could think twice, hands raised. "We need a medic!" It galled him to have to ask anything of the Autobots, but while any human-constructed ambulance could have taken Drag Strip to a repair facility, only an Autobot ambulance stood even the slightest chance of repelling another Combaticon ambush.

And even if the Combaticons hadn't been a factor, after everything he and his team had done, human law enforcement personnel had every reason to stand back and let Drag Strip deactivate. Whereas to the Autobots, all human lives were precious and sacred. If only he could gain the ambulance's sympathy _before _the ambulance got the memo…

The ambulance pulled up beside them with a screech of brakes and transformed. Motormaster had expected to see another Protectobot, but instead the mech who towered over him—slag, he would _never_ get used to that—was the Autobot medic, Ratchet.

"What happened?" His voice was terse and peremptory, but there was authority in it.

Motormaster tilted his head towards Drag Strip. "Vortex shot him in the chest," he said. "I think I've stabilized the injury, but he needs help urgently."

"How did you know his name was Vortex?" the Protectobot said.

Ratchet's optic ridges came together. "Does that really matter now, Streetwise? We can…"

His voice trailed off and his optics fixed on a point just below Motormaster's right shoulder. Motormaster glanced down to see why the stupid slagger was wasting time instead of helping them, and found himself looking at the Decepticon symbol drawn on his right arm.

"I…" he began, but no plausible lie came to mind as he looked back up at Ratchet. The Autobot's frown had deepened, confusion and wariness showing clearly on his faceplates. _Did he notice that my optics are purple too?_

"Why were those Decepticons trying to kidnap you?" Ratchet said slowly.

_No choice. Not any longer._ _Not if I want them to save Drag Strip's life_.

Motormaster glanced back at his subordinates. Dead End was now slouched against the side of the pickup, arms folded, but Breakdown was nowhere in sight. He'd probably slid down beneath steering-wheel level at the thought of the Autobot staring at him. Wildrider and Drag Strip hadn't moved at all.

Not for the first time Motormaster felt alone and horribly exposed, but none of that mattered a slag. He was the team's leader. He had to do whatever it took to keep them alive and safe, and he'd deal with the consequences later.

He turned back to Ratchet again, tilting his head back to look up into the Autobot's face. "My designation is Motormaster," he said, "and we are the Stunticons."

* * *

"Extend his arm."

There was an intercom in the back of the ambulance—just as there had been in Motormaster's alt-mode, so he pushed that memory out of his mind—and Ratchet kept barking orders at them as he drove at top speed. "No, the other arm! Okay, now find the vein in the crook of the elbow."

When Ratchet had transformed and ordered them inside, Motormaster's humiliation had been eclipsed by relief. Now at least Drag Strip would get the repairs he needed—field repairs, but those were better than nothing, and the Constructicons had often made do with such until they could return to Hook's orderly and well-outfitted repair bay.

What Motormaster hadn't taken into consideration was that firstly, most of the medical supplies Ratchet carried were to treat mechs rather than humans. And secondly, performing field repairs themselves was quite different from standing back and watching the Constructicons do it. Thankfully Drag Strip seemed to have gone into stasis lock at the strain of being moved from the back of the pickup—that was the only reason Motormaster could think of for him not complaining about anything they did—but Ratchet said they had to treat him for shock.

Ratchet had seemed in shock himself when he heard who they were, though he had shaken it off a few moments later. Now he drove so fast that instruments and supplies slid about in his interior. The Stunticons might have slid too, if they hadn't been packed solidly into what little space there was. Drag Strip lay on a stretcher, with a bag of clear fluid finally connected to his arm. His eyes were closed, and a film of sweat covered his pallid face, although his skin felt strangely cold.

Breakdown found a blanket in a storage compartment and tucked it around him. Then the four of them sat on either side of the stretcher, and waited. The intercom worked both ways, so no one said a word.

"Frag," Ratchet said suddenly.

He didn't raise his voice, but in the silence they all heard, and a moment later his engine revved hard. Motormaster's internal components tightened as if invisible wrenches had been working on them, and he glanced at Drag Strip. No, his condition didn't look as though it had changed, which could only mean one thing.

"What's going on?" Wildrider said.

Twisting around, Motormaster extricated himself from between the stretcher and the medical equipment, then pushed halfway between the front seats. Ratchet growled a command to stay where he was, but by then Motormaster had already seen all he needed to see. Reflected in the side mirror, the speck in the sky was tiny but gaining on them fast—and Motormaster had fought enough airborne enemies to recognize it.

"A Seeker," he said aloud.

Breakdown went very still, while Wildrider stared at him with a mixture of hope and dread. Dead End slumped against the ambulance's side.

"Starscream," he said, and looked around as if hoping to see an overdose of sedatives with his name on it.

Motormaster stayed where he was—it was an awkward, uncomfortable position, wedged halfway between the front seats, but he couldn't look away from the fighter jet that was rapidly gaining on them. If it was Starscream, if _he_ knew who they were as well, they were all dead.

Not that they would fare much better with some of the other Seekers, though. Ramjet was loyal to Megatron, but he usually assumed every other Decepticon was as tough as he was and would probably just stuff all five of them into his cockpit with no thought to oxygen levels or gravitational forces.

And Thrust… well, Thrust was an obedient enough soldier, but now Motormaster remembered all the times he had threatened or intimidated him. Thrust was Drag Strip with wings, all boast and bluster without anything to back it up… but at that moment, Thrust had size and speed and firepower that Motormaster most definitely didn't.

Thundercracker might have taken them back to Megatron, if he overcame his disdain for humans long enough to listen to them. Skywarp would have, too, but his sense of humor sometimes verged on the malicious and he would have put them through hell first. If they emerged missing fingers or eyes as a result, who was to say the Combaticons hadn't done that?

And the only other Autobot in sight was the Protectobot interceptor driving beside Ratchet. After finally forcing Onslaught into a retreat, neither the 'copter nor the fire truck had been in any shape to keep up with Ratchet's breakneck pace.

The Seeker came in fast, firing rapidly. Ratchet swerved to avoid the shots, but the evasive maneuver was so jerky and out-of-control that he ended up scraping paint against the highway barrier before he recovered. Motormaster's teeth clenched involuntarily at the shriek of rasping metal and skidding tires.

Streetwise fired back, but the Seeker tilted to avoid the shot—his shadow slewed over them—and zoomed in low. Ratchet tried to maintain his speed but he was shaking now, medical equipment rattling in a staccato rhythm.

Abruptly Motormaster understood. "Dirge."

Ratchet said nothing. Overhead, the blue jet wheeled about for another pass, and Motormaster shoved his way between the front seats, grunting at the discomfort.

"I'll drive!" he snapped. At least Dirge's engines didn't affect humans.

"No!" Ratchet replied in much the same tone, and the prospect of being driven by a Stunticon seemed to scare him far more than Dirge did, because he managed to control himself when Dirge flew over them again.

That time, the Seeker didn't entirely avoid the blast of compressed air from Streetwise's cannon; it sent him into a barrel roll before his flight smoothed out again. He didn't seem too interested in engaging them further after that, and roared off at top speed. Motormaster watched him in the side mirror until he disappeared, trying not to think of how easily Dirge could fly back to the _Nemesis_.

On the speedometer before him, the needle was in the red zone—though still slower than a Stunticon—as Ratchet raced north along the I-5. _Oregon,_ Motormaster thought suddenly. _We're heading for Oregon._

"Aren't you going to take Drag Strip to a human repair facility?" he said.

"No." Ratchet's firm reply brooked no refusals. "I'm taking you all to the Ark."

Motormaster's fists clenched and he stared at the dashboard, wondering what would happen if he grabbed the steering wheel and commandeered the Autobot who dared to defy him. "You want him to die in your brig?"

"Don't be any more of a fool than you already are," Ratchet shot back. "I don't want any of you to die anywhere. But I'm not taking him to a hospital. The Decepticons have killed enough humans trying to get to you."

Motormaster couldn't have cared less about what happened to humans, but he realized reluctantly that Ratchet was right about one thing—human facilities couldn't stand up to Decepticon attacks, but the Ark could. If the Combaticons tried to capture them again…

_And we'd be safer with the Autobots than with _them.

It still felt as though he had swallowed acid, and he needed a few moments before he could reply, "Drag Strip still needs medical attention."

"We'll do everything we can to help him," Ratchet said. "Once we're back at the Ark. Now go back and join your team, because I don't want you near my controls."

Motormaster sneered. "Afraid I might take over and actually get us somewhere?"

"No," Ratchet said dismissively. "You lay one finger on my dashboard and I'll swerve off the highway. See how many times I can flip over before I come to a halt. Whatever happens to you lot during that won't be any of my concern."

Motormaster had been programmed to hate the Autobots, but what he felt for Ratchet at that moment went far beyond any programming—except for the deep imperative that he protect his team. He would gladly repay Ratchet for his threat some day. _Cut up another Autobot in front of him, but keep him immobilized so he can't do anything but watch, just as I can't do anything but watch Drag Strip now. Yes. And do it slowly._

He went back and rejoined his team.

* * *

Although he was in the back of the ambulance again, Motormaster could still see through the windshield, so he knew when they were approaching the Ark. Two more cars came out to provide an escort, and Motormaster looked away from them at Drag Strip's motionless form. He tried not to focus on the rise and fall of Drag Strip's chest, because when he did it felt as though his own fuel pump was beating in unison, and that it would stop when Drag Strip's did.

But when Breakdown cringed back, he knew they had arrived even before the mountain's shadow fell over them. Ratchet drove in and braked to a halt seconds later. The doors at the back swung open and Motormaster pushed his way out so he could remove the stretcher.

The Autobots surrounded him.

"Spread out, don't let 'em run off—"

"Those can_not_ be the Stunticons. Someone's playing a ridiculous prank on us."

"Is the little ugly one Motormaster?"

"Be quiet, everyone!" The voice that cut through the clamor wasn't loud, but it had a note of cold authority that eclipsed even Ratchet's, and the other voices sank down to a low murmur. Motormaster didn't bother to look up, though, since Wildrider and Breakdown slid the stretcher carefully out at that moment and he took hold of the other end.

Drag Strip didn't move, and Motormaster pressed his fingers to the inside of Drag Strip's wrist as Ratchet had told him to do, what felt like hours ago. The pulse was so faint he barely felt it.

"Do something!" he said to the gathered Autobots who loomed over him like the mountain itself. He couldn't even make out individual faces—they were a single mass of brightly colored metal that seemed to cut him off from all help and all hope.

Then there was a slide and clank as Ratchet transformed, and Prowl snapped a curt order for the Autobots to get out of the way. In a detached corner of his mind Motormaster wondered who they were making room for, but when they stepped aside a white motorbike roared out of a passageway and into their midst. A human was riding it, but he leaped off as soon as the motorbike slewed to a halt beside them and dropped to his knees beside the stretcher.

The motorbike transformed and Motormaster recognized yet another Protectobot. The human seemed oddly familiar too, although Motormaster couldn't think why.

"Skyfire's just flown in from the Adventist Medical Center," the human said, "and we're setting up the equipment they sent in the repair bay." He took his fingers off Drag Strip's wrist and lifted his eyelids before letting them drop again, then scrambled back to his feet. "We'll take him there—"

"I know where I've seen you." Motormaster said. It was the human's eyes he'd recognized, blue as a fragment of optic he'd once picked out of his finger-joints. "You're the idiot who tried to use some machine on me after that Autobot stopped me from reaching Hook. You're not even a medic, are you? You weren't dressed like them. Are _you_ going to be working on Drag Strip?"

The human hesitated. "The medical center sent a doctor…"

"Ed will help too," the Protectobot scooter said, moving a little closer to him. "He's learning as much as he can, and he'll do his best. He won't let your—"

There was a sudden indrawn breath and Motormaster turned to see Breakdown, behind him as usual, staring at the human as if he couldn't believe what he had just seen. "Ed… Furst," he said.

"What?" Motormaster snapped. They were in enough trouble without having to deal with Breakdown's neuroses.

"Don't you get it?" Breakdown said. "Ed Furst. _First Aid._"

And in the blank silence following that, Dead End said quietly, "He's one of the Protectobots?"

The human met Motormaster's stare. "Yes. And I'll do whatever it takes to keep Drag Strip alive." He paused again. "Can we take him to the repair bay now?"

Perhaps it was the fact that First Aid was part of a gestalt too—yet human now—or maybe it was that he'd used Drag Strip's name, something even Ratchet hadn't done. Or perhaps it was the simple fact that Drag Strip was dying, and there was no more time to waste.

Motormaster nodded.

* * *

Prowl picked up both stretcher and First Aid and took them to the repair bay. Even at a run, Motormaster wouldn't have been able to keep up with the Autobot, and he was no longer able to run; now that the battle was over, all the damage he had taken made itself felt. The rent in his side ached so fiercely that he wondered if he had broken all the stitches, and he couldn't hear out of his right ear thanks to Brawl's sonic weapon.

So he had to walk, although the Protectobot motorcycle led the way. Dead End, Breakdown and Wildrider trailed behind him, ahead of an Autobot escort—_call it what it is, a guard,_ Motormaster thought bitterly—and they arrived at the closed doors of the repair bay.

"Hey, what's goin' on?" Wildrider bounded up to the huge doors and pounded on them with a fist, which Motormaster doubted anyone inside would even have noticed, let alone responded to.

"You expect 'em to be any different from Hook?" he said brusquely. The Constructicons would not have let the rest of them into the repair bay either.

The Autobots didn't look as though they agreed with the comparison, but finally one of them said, "You can wait out here if you like." Motormaster didn't even bother to acknowledge that, because there was no "if you like" about it. Trying not to make it look as though he was slumping with exhaustion, he sat down on the floor, his back against the wall. The other Stunticons came to sit beside him.

He wished there was some way to know what was happening to Drag Strip, but without the gestalt bond, all he could do was wait for the repairs to finish. Word of their arrival seemed to have flown through the ship, though, because a constant parade of Autobots made their way past to observe his team.

Some of them were more blatant gawkers than others. Motormaster ignored them all, but Breakdown looked as though he was trying to sink into the wall, and Wildrider made rude gestures at any Autobots who stared too long. Their guards—Ironhide and a sullen-looking Cliffjumper—stood close by, so Motormaster felt reasonably sure that none of the Autobots would try to mess with his team, much as they might want to.

Taunting them, though, seemed to fall into a grey area as far as orders went. "Is that Motormaster?" one of them said. "Five kliks alone with him, 'Hide, that's all." He held up a hand, fingers spread, as if perhaps Ironhide couldn't count that high without assistance, and was told to get the slag out before he was assigned to patrol duty with the Dinobots. Cliffjumper muttered resentfully under his breath until Ironhide told him to shut up as well.

Motormaster's lip curled. He would have liked to make a retort of some kind, but he was so tired he didn't really care, and he barely registered any of the other remarks or insults flung in their general direction.

But when Hound appeared in the passageway and stopped in his tracks, staring at them, Motormaster felt himself sit up straight as if his frame moved of its own volition.

"I don't believe it." Hound looked as though he'd been hit with a null-ray. "You… That's why you were running towards them!"

"Yeah," Motormaster said. "And we'd be back in our own base by now if you hadn't interfered." He jerked a thumb in the direction of the repair bay. "What happened to Drag Strip? _Your_ fault."

"Hey, watch your mouth—" Cliffjumper began, but at that moment Mirage slipped into the passageway and stopped as well.

"You mean that one's Wildrider?" he said to Hound before turning back to gape at them. "I bought him a new motorcycle!"

Wildrider nodded. "Yeah, and it was a sweet ride, but Brawl slagged it. Can you get me another one?"

Before Mirage could reply to that, Cliffjumper rounded on him. "You bought a motorcycle for a _Decepticon_?"

"Oh, not this again," Mirage said, and vanished. Hound gave Cliffjumper a dirty look, shook his head and walked off.

"Right, we're clearin' the area," Ironhide muttered. "Red? It's getting' kinda crowded down here, so let's have authorized personnel only for the time bein'."

That seemed to cut down on the foot traffic, though after what felt like hours Motormaster almost missed it—he loathed the Autobots, but they had at least been a distraction. Now all he could think of was what was happening behind those closed doors.

What kind of repairs were they making to Drag Strip? Replacing damaged components, sticking tubes in him? Vaguely he remembered that Drag Strip was afraid of needles. _Coward_, jeered one part of his mind, but another part wondered if Drag Strip was still alive to be afraid now.

_Repairs. _He glanced at the rest of his team, evaluating their condition. Wildrider was in the worst shape—the bruises he'd taken after his fall stood out in patches of ugly color, though the swelling around his eye seemed to be subsiding. Dead End and Breakdown looked exhausted and dusty, but they all did, so he dismissed that. They needed to refuel and recharge, though.

Which wasn't an option until they knew Drag Strip was going to be all right.

In the darkness at the end of the passageway, something rumbled softly. Wildrider's head came up sharply at the sound, but Motormaster's frame stiffened. He recognized that sound—and it was growing louder.

Red and blue and shining chrome grille, the muted roar of a powerful engine and diesel fumes. Optimus Prime drove into the passage, multiple wheels eating the distance between them in seconds, and stopped only a few yards away from Ironhide.

A film descended over Motormaster's vision, almost as if his optics had turned a Decepticon color, and the damage to his human frame was suddenly irrelevant, nonexistent. He was on his feet even before Prime could transform, and he knew without being told that the other Stunticons had stood too.

Cliffjumper leveled a hard look at them, as if daring them to try anything on his watch, but Motormaster ignored that. The only significant Autobot was the one who towered over him.

And then Prime actually went to one knee. For a moment Motormaster couldn't even breathe, much less speak, through the choking sensation that filled his throat. _He has to rub it in that I'm human now, that I'm smaller than he is! Patronizing fragger—_

"Motormaster," Optimus Prime said. "I must speak with you. Do you want us to do so privately?"

"No," Motormaster said flatly. "I won't be separated from my team."

"I meant, I can dismiss your escort until we've spoken—"

"No need. They're Autobots, it doesn't matter what they hear or think. Say what you have to say and get it over with."

Cliffjumper growled. "You are so lucky you're the size of my little finger—"

"That's enough, Cliffjumper," Prime said, then looked back at Motormaster. "We've been receiving repeated transmissions from the _Nemesis_."

Motormaster's fuel pump twisted. _Megatron_. He thought of how hard his team had worked to contact the base, and here the Autobots were, getting that contact handed to them.

"We haven't acknowledged any of the transmissions," Prime continued, "because we've been deciding on what, if anything, to tell Megatron about you. But if he could attack us over the theft of the personality components of Decepticon criminals, he's likely to do even more if he believes we're holding you here."

A sudden surge of hope filled Motormaster, warmer than energon._ If Megatron attacks the Autobot ship, we can go home—_

_If he knows we're human. If he doesn't mistake us for the Autobots' pets. If Starscream or another 'con doesn't scrap us first._

The hope sank down, draining away like slag at the bottom of a furnace. Motormaster swallowed hard, struggling to control his features before they gave away his thoughts. He would die before he showed any weakness in front of Prime.

"Do you want to speak to him?" Prime's voice was low and calm and neutral.

Motormaster stared warily up at him, eyes narrowed. "What will you allow me to say to him?"

Optic ridges drew together beneath Prime's helm. "Whatever you wish."

"_Right._"

Prime sighed. "You have my word. Or did you think I was planning to put a gun to your head while you spoke to Megatron? That wouldn't accomplish much of anything."

Motormaster hesitated. It was true—what could he say that Megatron didn't know already, except perhaps that one of the Autobots was human as well? Obviously Megatron had been able to use the matter-energy convertor against their enemies, not that that mattered at the moment. The most important thing was speaking to his leader again…

…_once I'm able to look him in the optic again._

"When Drag Strip's repairs are done," he said. "I'll talk to Megatron then."

Ironhide glanced down at him, frowning, but Prime only nodded and got back to his feet. "Very well. Shall I have some food sent to you while you wait?"

Motormaster started to shake his head—he didn't need any favors from the Autobots—but the movement gave him a glimpse of his team. They looked back at him with expressionless faces, but he'd already seen Wildrider swallow at the mention of food.

"Fine," he said, trying to sound indifferent, and sat back down.

Prime left and the food soon arrived—a pizza delivered by a human female. Motormaster could eat none of it. Each time he breathed in, all he registered was the faint scent of diesel fumes rather than the presence of food.

Each time he breathed in was a fresh discomfort. The wound in his side continued to hurt—not a sharp pain but a grinding ache that scraped his endurance away like sandpaper—and although the human female looked nothing like Val, he found himself thinking of her. He wished he could have seen her again; she had always been able to make him feel better somehow.

The repairs seemed to take hours—without a chronometer, Motormaster couldn't tell how long they had been waiting—and Wildrider began to fidget, though he soon stopped when Motormaster gave him a cuff on the head. Breakdown only ate one slice of the pizza, saying that he was saving the rest for Drag Strip.

"He doesn't like olives," Dead End said, so Breakdown picked those off the remains of the pizza and ate them himself.

_Doesn't like olives, scared of needles, crazy about winning and the color yellow._ Motormaster didn't know why he was thinking like that, as if making a list of things about Drag Strip. _It's not like I need to remember him. _Drag Strip would be repaired and would return to the team, as ridiculous and annoying as ever, if not more so.

_And what if he doesn't?_

Motormaster didn't want to drive down that particular road, but he was too tired to reel his thoughts in any longer. If Drag Strip died, all wouldn't be lost. They would still be able to return home—Megatron might regret the loss of Menasor, but he could still make use of them as soldiers, if not as a combiner team. They would return to their home and their battle, just without Drag Strip.

They would live through the centuries and millenia of existence that were every Cybertronian's life span, and Drag Strip would not be there.

_I wouldn't miss him_. Motormaster was certain of that. His regrets would be failing as the leader of his Stunticons, failing in his duty to hold his team together, but what was there to miss about Drag Strip? His vainglorious dreams and hypercompetitive nature, his secret fears about never quite being good enough? Motormaster had belittled and beat him times beyond count in an effort to make him measure up, without ever really succeeding.

In fact, sometimes it had had the opposite effect. Of all the Stunticons, Drag Strip was the most defiant and insubordinate, to the point where Motormaster wondered what, if anything, had been in Vector Sigma's processors when Drag Strip had been created. Motormaster wanted a subordinate who would do as he ordered, one who wouldn't chafe under his rule and constantly grasp for his own glory. It wasn't as though there would ever come a time when they _needed_ Drag Strip's stubbornness and defiance.

Or would they?

Perhaps it was just the hunger making him light-headed, but Motormaster found himself wondering about that. Decepticon culture stressed obedience to authority, but he remembered the time Megatron had used a replica of Optimus Prime to fool the Autobots, who had obligingly followed it because none of them would ever dream of defying their leader.

_If Drag Strip can barely be made to obey me when I'm right, he'd never obey me if I were wrong._ And that went for any leader. If Drag Strip could be dying now, who was to say that Motormaster himself might not fall in the future? Drag Strip could never lead the team—despite his delusions to the contrary—but he wouldn't allow himself to give in to despair or fear either. He would soldier on somehow, simply because he was too fragging stubborn to give the universe the satisfaction of seeing him drop. Nor would he just accept any other 'con's leadership.

_And that's why my team needs him._

Motormaster drew in a long breath and tilted his head back until he felt the solidity of the wall.

* * *

Shortly afterwards, another engine revved at the end of the passageway and another Autobot drove up to them. Breakdown and Wildrider both stared at the sleek Porsche, though Dead End's eyes narrowed as Jazz transformed.

"Mind if I join you guys?" he said, and plopped down to the floor opposite them.

Motormaster ignored him, but he felt apprehensive. They hadn't caused any trouble, so why had Jazz been sent for?

Unless something had happened to Drag Strip, and Prime thought Autobot reinforcements were needed to control him when he found out? If so, he would make the Autobots pay, somehow. _The battle may be over, but the war isn't._

He knew his suspicion was founded when the doors of the repair bay slid open. The Stunticons scrambled up, and Motormaster rose, turning to face the humans—and Autobot—who stood just inside. He recognized Ratchet and First Aid, who was now wearing some kind of long white coat, but another human stood beside the Protectobot medic.

Motormaster had never seen her before, but when he looked at her something cold and heavy filled his stomach, as though he had swallowed lead ingots. There was something in her expression—

"This is Dr. Judith Gregory," First Aid said. "She's a surgeon at the Adventist Medical—"

"What's Drag Strip's status?"

First Aid hesitated. "Well, the good news is that the damage to his lungs was minimal. Dr. Gregory stitched up the wound and she's given him antibiotics—"

"What's the bad news?" Motormaster said.

That time, it was the human surgeon who answered. "It's his spine. I'm not sure whether the injury was caused by the laser, or by him being moved too much before he was brought here, but there's significant trauma at the thoracic level."

"What does that mean?"

She slid her hands into the pockets of her white coat. "I'll need to do further tests, but there's a good chance he may be paraplegic."

Breakdown mouthed the word as though wondering how to use it in a sentence. "That means he won't be able to use his legs," First Aid said.

"Until when?" Motormaster said.

The human surgeon exchanged a quick look with First Aid and cleared her throat. "This kind of injury is usually permanent."

Wildrider looked stunned. "You mean… he's never going to dance again?"

"Guilty feet have got no rhythm," Jazz said.

Ratchet gave him a hard look, and Jazz made a little zipping-shut gesture at his mouth. Motormaster said nothing, mostly because he couldn't think of what to do next. How could they escape from the Ark if Drag Strip couldn't use his legs?

"He's going to be really upset that he can't strip any more," Wildrider said, and Ratchet stared at him instead.

Dead End nodded. "On the other hand, he'll be thrilled that we now have to wait on him hand and foot."

Motormaster took charge before the conversation could go any further. "Let me see him," he said to Ratchet.

"You can see him, but he's sedated. He won't be awake for at least a few more hours."

_A few more hours. And he might never be able to walk again. _Never mind, they would deal with that problem later. The most important thing now was to use the time they had left to contact Megatron. He remembered thinking, what felt like a hundred years ago, that the longer Megatron had to wait to hear from them, the less forgiving he was likely to be.

"Tell Prime I'm ready," he said to Jazz, and then stared into the repair bay, ignoring everyone else, until he heard Prime drive up. Then he turned back to face the Autobot leader, who had not transformed.

"Motormaster," Prime said, "I'm glad Drag Strip's condition is stabilized, and we hope he'll make a complete recovery."

_Sure you do_. _You can't wait for the day when he's tearing up the roads and playing tag with police cars again._ Motormaster breathed in deeply to control himself and said, "I want to speak to Megatron."

"Of course. You can do that through Teletraan-1, in the command centre." One of Prime's doors popped open. "Would you like a ride?"

Motormaster spoke through gritted teeth. "I'll walk."


	41. Interlude III

_Chapter summary : Optimus Prime, Motormaster and Megatron have a discussion._

* * *

**Interlude III**

"Motormaster has my permission to contact Megatron," Optimus Prime said to Groove over the internal comm. "Could you escort him to Teletraan-1?"

"Sure thing, Prime," Groove said cheerfully.

Optimus closed his door again and drove off. _I should have known he wouldn't take a ride from me_, he thought as he watched Motormaster's shape grow even smaller in his rearview mirror. He felt sure that if it had been Motormaster rather than Drag Strip who had been so badly damaged, the Stunticon leader would have crawled all the way rather than accept any help.

And at least a few of the Autobots would have enjoyed that—hence the escort, because Optimus didn't think even the Stunticon leader would try any kind of espionage or sabotage while the rest of his team was in Autobot hands. Groove was a pacifist, but not a pushover. His sheer size—compared to the Stunticons, anyway—would keep Motormaster in line, and at least a few of the Autobots had learned from experience not to mess with any members of a gestalt.

Thankfully the Aerialbots were long gone. As soon as Ratchet had radioed in about his passengers, Optimus had commed Silverbolt, explained the situation and excused the Aerialbots from their duties for the rest of the day. A day off was a rare thing for them, since when they weren't dealing with Decepticon activity, they were training or on patrol.

So less than three minutes after his comm, the team had left the Ark in high spirits. Though Silverbolt had paused to give Optimus a look that clearly said, _I'm not looking forward to what'll happen when we get back and they find out._

For now, though, Optimus stopped and transformed before the computer bank, glanced at the screen which flashed _Incoming transmission : Nemesis : accept?_ at him, and waited.

It seemed to take a long time for Motormaster to arrive, which wasn't surprising. All the Stunticons had looked in bad shape—not just physically damaged and running on fumes, but dusty and scuffed in a way that Optimus had never seen them appear as mechs. When the Autobots had faced sports cars or a truck, those had gleamed as if fresh off the assembly line.

If he hadn't been aware of at least some of the crimes they'd committed as humans, he might have felt sorry for them.

He became suddenly aware of all optics turning towards the doorway, and realized that Motormaster—silent as a human, so different from how he had been as a truck—had entered. Motormaster didn't even seem to notice the stares. He strode in, making straight for Prime. Groove was just behind, with First Aid sitting on his shoulder.

First Aid probably wished he could get his hands on Motormaster too, just for a different reason. There were bloodstains on Motormaster's torn shirt that Optimus didn't think had come from Drag Strip. But he knew Motormaster wouldn't thank him for noticing, much less for offering medical assistance, so he said nothing.

When Motormaster stopped before him, the top of his head was level with Optimus's knee and far below the comm screen. For a moment there was a tense pause while every other Autobot in the command centre pretended to be busy and surreptitiously watched them both. Optimus felt blank. He couldn't pick Motormaster up—even if the rigid posture and hostile silence weren't warning enough, the Stunticons were being laughed at enough already without him making matters worse.

_On the other hand, Teletraan-1 isn't getting any smaller…_

Thankfully, Prowl solved the problem by picking up a crate of supplies he had been examining. He carried it to the computer bank and set it down, then stepped away without saying a word. Motormaster used it to climb up to screen level, though Optimus didn't miss the effort it clearly took him to haul himself up. By the time he was at the level of Optimus's own hands, sweat had broken out on his face and his limbs were trembling.

"You can sit down there if you like," Optimus said. There was enough space just before the panel of buttons and switches, but when Motormaster's cold purple stare swung around at him, he knew he'd said the wrong thing. There was even more hatred in those eyes than there had been in the violet optics he'd faced across roads and battlefields, except it was now in a smaller frame and all the more concentrated as a result.

"I don't sit when I speak to my commander," Motormaster said flatly.

"Understood," Optimus said. Groove placed First Aid on the edge of another bank of computers nearby and stepped back. _All right, let's get this over with_.

"Accept the transmission," he said.

The screen flickered. Motormaster's shoulders stiffened and he turned to face the computer. His posture was straight as a rifle, arms by his sides and head lifted.

_It's so easy to forget that they're not even five years old, _Optimus thought absently, and then the image on the screen resolved itself into Megatron's face.

Optimus felt servos in his wrists and elbows tightening as circuits flickered in processors honed for battle… but the reaction was almost routine whenever he faced Megatron. And now he felt almost tired of it. He was millions of years old, and yet he seemed as locked into a brutal, endless war as Motormaster was.

"Optimus Prime." Megatron's voice was low and harsh as always, often in striking contrast to his formal way of speaking. "Do you have my Stunticons?"

_Straight to the point. _Optimus paused, wondering how much to reveal at the start.

"Are you aware of the Stunticons' current situation, Megatron?" he said.

Megatron's optics narrowed, a sign that his supply of patience was in the red zone. "According to the Combaticons, they defeated Motormaster and his troops in a skirmish, causing the Stunticons to seek refuge with you." After millenia of experience, Optimus could see what lay beneath the iron control, though he wasn't sure if Megatron's fury was for the Combaticons, the Stunticons or the Autobots. _Probably all three_.

Megatron went on. "One of the Seekers then confimed that the Combaticons had indeed engaged your excuses for troops." He paused. "Do you have my Stunticons?" he said, and Optimus didn't need much experience to realize that the question wouldn't be asked a third time.

"Yes, we do," he said.

Not even a flicker of expression crossed Megatron's face, though his optics gave him away; they burned as if they had just been lifted from a furnace. "Are they prisoners or deserters?"

"They're not deserters." When it came to the Stunticons, Optimus was sure about that at least.

"Then you _are_ holding them prisoner. Apparently you learned nothing from the last time."

Optimus ignored that. "If you wish to speak with Motormaster now, Megatron, you're free to do so," he said, hoping Motormaster would say something and put an end to an argument which accomplished nothing. He knew Megatron had noticed the human standing at attention at the edge of the bank of the computers, because Megatron noticed everything, but there was no indication of it.

"Release him from your brig and I will."

"He's not in the brig." Optimus inclined his head. "He's here. This is Motormaster."

Megatron didn't even bother looking down. "The humans have been giving you bad energon, Prime."

"I assure you, I'm serious," Optimus said, wishing Motormaster would just _talk_.

"Of course you are." Megatron's lip half-curled in a way that suggested he would sneer if he wasn't so bored by the farce. "If you wish to indulge in mockery before you return my Stunticons, Prime, I'll transfer you to Starscream's station."

"Lord Megatron," Motormaster said abruptly. "The other Stunticons and I were affected by your matter-energy convertor. It changed us to humans, and we thought it best that the Combaticons not find us in that condition, so we left the area. We have been trying to contact the _Nemesis_ ever since."

When he had started speaking, for a single startled moment Megatron's guard slipped. It was, Optimus thought, like seeing a shot fired into the center of a pool of mercury; the ripples formed and spread—then sank down as though they had never existed. A light flickered once, through red optics and then that was gone as well.

Motormaster must have been used to tense unpleasant silences when speaking to his commander, because he showed no visible strain when his report received no reply. He simply looked up into Megatron's optics as few other humans could have done, and waited. Out of the corner of one optic, Optimus saw First Aid leaning forward so he could see the screen fully, but everything else in his visual field was still.

"State your most recent security clearance," Megatron said finally.

"Nine three eight eight eight eight one four one five nine."

"And the location of our abandoned base in the Colorado Plateau."

There was a second's pause. "As far as I know, we don't have a base there," Motormaster said.

_Trick question,_ Optimus knew. Not that he blamed Megatron; no one kept their position at the top of the Decepticon food chain by trusting others. He guessed there would be three questions, three chances for Motormaster to prove who he really was—Megatron wasn't given to wasting time on talk under circumstances like these.

_Two down_.

"Good," Megatron said briefly, but the word was almost soft. "Though the Motormaster I knew was a loyal warrior, one who obeyed my orders without question."

"I will obey you, Lord Megatron," Motormaster replied. All the hostility Optimus had seen only minutes ago was gone; the human's voice was no longer like a coiled spring wound far too tight, but reassured and certain. _He doesn't know what Megatron will order him to do to prove himself, but he knows he will do it._

"Very well, then." Megatron pointed at First Aid. "Kill that human."

Optimus froze for only a moment, but in that moment Motormaster broke into a run. He covered the length of the bank of computers in seconds. Optimus thrust his arm out, trying to cut him off from First Aid, but he'd forgotten how small Motormaster was now.

Flinging himself down, Motormaster wriggled beneath Optimus's arm. He leaped to his feet and ran at First Aid, whose startled expression had given way to one of horror. The other Autobots were rushing forward, but no one was close enough when First Aid scrambled back—straight off the edge of the high computer platform.

Optimus turned, grabbed the lid of the crate and kicked the crate across the floor. The lid ripped off in his hand and the crate banged into the base of the computer bank. An instant later First Aid plummeted into it, sending up a spray of Styrofoam packing peanuts.

Groove was at the side of the crate a moment later, carefully lifting out more packing material, but even before he could find First Aid Optimus closed a hand around Motormaster. "Stand down," he said to the Autobots who had drawn their weapons, and looked at Motormaster.

He wasn't struggling. He didn't even seem to realize he'd been picked up, and his gaze went to the computer screen just in time to catch the slight upturn of one corner of Megatron's mouth.

The command centre was in disarray and yet the two Decepticons seemed quite calm and unconcerned. It was that which made Optimus tighten his grip just a fraction, enough to make Motormaster turn to look up at him.

Optimus chose his words carefully and kept the growing anger out of his voice. "What do you think would have happened if you _had_ killed him?" he said. "To you and to your team?"

Motormaster's brows rose. "Whatever you do to me or to my team, it's better than insubordination."

It took all Optimus's self-control not to close his fist completely. He knew he would never have punished the other Stunticons for whatever Motormaster did—or whatever Megatron ordered him to do—but did Motormaster know that? "You would have committed murder, ended up a prisoner for life, jeopardized your gestalt's safety—"

"Spare me." Motormaster's lip curled before he turned his back on Optimus and looked back at the screen. "He doesn't get it, does he?" he said to Megatron. "I _am _Motormaster. I swore loyalty to you. Whatever shape or form I am in, you will always, always have that."

And in the silence that followed, Megatron smiled. "Release him, Prime."

"Ya don't give him orders," Ironhide snapped.

At that moment Optimus found it more repulsive to be touching Motormaster than Motormaster probably did to be restrained by him, and yet on the rear wheels of that came pity. _So much obedience and loyalty, given to someone who sees him as nothing more than a tool, a weapon to commit cold and casual murder. He even hates us only because he was programmed to do so. Yet he'll never see any of it, and will never doubt or question Megatron._

At moments like that, Optimus was grateful for his battlemask. Carefully he held his hand just over the edge of the computer platform and opened his fingers.

"I'm not obeying you, Megatron," he said quietly. "But I do see that while I can protect others from Motormaster, I can't protect him from you."

That made Motormaster frown, staring sideways at him, and Megatron's mouth straightened as well. "Motormaster is a Decepticon warrior," he said, "and not in any need of _your_ protection, Prime. Especially not from me. My hands built the Stunticons' bodies and my vision made their minds."

"Such as they are," Prowl said.

Megatron ignored that. "They are mine," he continued, "and I don't relinquish what belongs to me."

Motormaster turned back to look at him, and Optimus could see the pride evident in the set of his shoulders, the uplift of his head. _He doesn't see anything wrong with being owned by Megatron, like a possession—he's _happy_ about it._ Sighing silently, he gave up on that line of argument.

"Whatever your relationship with your troops may be, Megatron, I don't plan on letting them inflict further damage on mine," he said. First Aid was out of the crate now, looking a bit wobbly on his feet but unhurt, though he took care to stay well behind Groove. "You might also remember that the Stunticons' safety depends on us. That human whom you ordered killed? He helped save Drag Strip's life."

"Well, you should have informed me of that, Prime," Megatron replied. "I would have ordered Motormaster to kill him painlessly."

_This is getting us nowhere_, Optimus thought, but before he could say anything else Motormaster spoke. 'Lord Megatron," he said, "that human is a Protectobot. He must have been affected by the matter-energy converter too."

"Indeed?" Megatron looked gratified. "The Constructicons reported that a handful of Autobots involuntarily participated in their field tests of the converter, but they weren't certain of the converter's exact effects other than the fact that it scattered the Autobots' combined form somehow. So it turned that one human too?"

"Not that we can tell the difference," Motormaster said, and Megatron chuckled. _All right,_ Optimus thought, _time to break up the happy reunion._

"Are the Constructicons capable of reversing the effects of this weapon, Megatron?" he said.

One silver shoulder twitched in a shrug. "They would have to carry out further experimentation, more field tests… any volunteers, Prime?"

"Your Stunticons, if need be," Optimus said mildly. "I'm willing to cooperate on this matter. You want them restored, I take it, and we want First Aid returned to his original state as well."

"Very well, then," Megatron said. "Return the Stunticons to me, and once we've completely reversed the converter's effects we'll use it on your Protectobot."

"You must think I was sparked yesterday."

"I think somewhere a village is missing its idiot." Megatron glanced at Motormaster. "If you're unwilling to offer up your own troops as test subjects, yet you refuse to relinquish mine, what do you propose?"

Optimus ignored the petty insult, although he wondered if it was an indication that Megatron had no real intentions of working together with them, even though the Autobots and Decepticons had cooperated once or twice in the past when they'd faced a common threat. "All right," he said. "As a gesture of good faith, I'm prepared to return one of the Stunticons to you, but after that we—"

"_No!"_ Megatron's voice was suddenly so loud that even Motormaster flinched—and nearly fell, which Optimus thought would have been poetic justice. _Why is he angry, though? _He replayed what he had just suggested, but couldn't see what Megatron had found so offensive.

He started to speak, but Megatron continued, spitting the words out. "The Stunticons belong to me! You will return the six of them immediately!"

Now Optimus was sure Megatron had blown a processor or two. "…Six?"

"Of course. I count Menasor as well." Megatron seemed to be calming down, though his words were no less intractable. "Not one at a time and not on your terms, but mine. My way or the highway, Prime. You have one day to decide."

The screen went dead.

* * *

_Authors' note : Thanks for reading and reviewing, everyone! Due to end-of-the-year deadlines and final exams, from now on, new chapters of "Crash Course" will be uploaded once every three weeks. Fortunately, we have only four more chapters to go! Hope you'll stay strapped in for the rest of the ride. _


	42. Impound Lot

_Chapter summary : The Autobots have taken the Stunticons prisoner! It worked so well last ' notes : This chapter contains a Dr. Smoov shoutout, because anon_decepticon can't resist sneaking them in._

* * *

**Chapter 42 – Impound Lot**

Breakdown scowled, hunching his shoulders in an effort to look smaller. After Motormaster had left, Wildrider had asked again to see Drag Strip, and this time the Autobots had relented.

Drag Strip was offline, just as the Autobots had said he would be, but they gathered in a loose knot around his berth anyway. They needed to see for themselves that he was still functioning, and – perhaps more importantly – that he continued to do so.

But as the minutes ticked by, Breakdown felt increasingly nervous. He wished Wildrider would laugh and make fun of him like he had that time in the Autobot brig, but Wildrider was asleep, curled up on the berth next to Drag Strip. Dead End was fussing with Drag Strip's clothes, trying to straighten the remains of his collar and wipe the bloodstains from his face with a scrap of cloth he'd retrieved from somewhere.

Apart from the beeping of various monitors, the room was quiet. The two Autobots who'd stayed behind – three if you counted the human First Aid – were making a show of going about their business (or in Jazz's case, loitering around) but Breakdown was certain they were keeping a close optic on them.

The human female, Doctor Gregory, was outright _staring_, staring and scribbling down notes on a pad like they were some kind of science experiment, her eyes bright with fascination. Breakdown aimed a resentful glare in her general direction and inched a little further behind Dead End.

The new position gave him a better view of Drag Strip's battered frame, triggering an unexpected surge of guilt.

_If __I__'__d __just__ unlocked __the__ door,__ he __wouldn__'__t__ have __gotten __shot_.

But he hadn't done that. Instead he'd pretended to fumble with the pickup's lock, knowing full well Drag Strip would be too impatient to wait, because then he'd get to sit next to –

"Where is he?"

Breakdown turned just in time to see Motormaster come striding thought the huge double doors of the repair bay, followed closely by Prowl. Prowl's expression looked even more stern and forbidding than usual, but Motormaster ignored him completely, heading straight for Drag Strip.

"Is he still offline?" A brief glance answered that question, and Motormaster turned to the doctor. "Wake him up."

"In his current condition, that's not medically advisable," Dr. Gregory replied.

Motormaster didn't look at all pleased with that answer. He swallowed hard, glancing from Drag Strip to the Autobots and back again, and gritted out, "What's his status?"

"Stable, for now. I'll know more when he comes around and I've had a chance to run some tests."

Motormaster's jaw tightened. "Fine. We'll wait."

"I'd be happy to examine the rest of you in the meantime." She stepped forward with a smile. "All of you appear to have minor injuries, and you yourself are clearly –"

Motormaster's voice was calm, his tone matter-of-fact. "Come any closer and I'll break your arm."

Suddenly there was no more pretending; they had the undivided attention of every Autobot in the room. Breakdown cringed beneath their collective gaze even as Dr. Gregory took a slow and cautious step back. First Aid stepped forward to help, but Prowl gave him a terse command to stand down.

Everyone was staring at Motormaster as if he'd suddenly transformed into a ticking bomb. Breakdown shuddered at the thought. _Leave __us__ alone,_ he thought desperately. _Stick __us __in __the __brig,__ stick__ us__ anywhere,__ just __stop _looking_ at__ us_…

"You do appear to be leaking again," Dead End said, breaking the tense silence. He brushed ineffectively at a patch of road dust on his sleeve. "Perhaps you should let her examine you."

Motormaster whirled around with his arm out, backhanding him across the face. Dead End stumbled backward and lost his balance, knocking over a tray full of gauze and bandages as he went crashing to the floor.

But Motormaster didn't stop there. He stepped forward, his face contorted with rage and his hands balled into fists. Bending down, he grabbed hold of Dead End's lapels and hauled him to his feet. Behind him, Dr. Gregory hurried away to join First Aid, who had taken shelter behind Jazz's legs.

"Motormaster, _stop_."

Breakdown didn't have to look to know that Prowl had a gun; the tone of his voice was enough. It was apparently enough for Motormaster, too – he froze, but didn't let go. Dead End swung limply in his grip, making no effort to struggle or escape.

_What __is__ he__ doing? _Breakdown glanced at Wildrider, who'd been awakened by the noise, and Drag Strip, who hadn't. It wasn't unusual for Motormaster to hit them, especially when he was angry, but _now_ was hardly the time. And Motormaster hardly ever hit Dead End – it wasn't favoritism; it just didn't _work_.

"I am disciplining my subordinate." Motormaster's voice was tight, controlled. "You have no right to interfere."

"Objection noted," Prowl replied. "But I have my orders. Let him go."

Motormaster hesitated…then jerked Dead End close, hissing something in his ear. Breakdown didn't catch the words, but knowing Motormaster it was probably a threat.

Dead End stared back at him blankly. "Understood."

Motormaster released him with a growl, dropping him unceremoniously on the floor, then turned away to address the room at large. "Anyone else want to waste my time?"

Breakdown looked at Dead End, but apart from picking himself up off the floor Dead End didn't seem inclined to do much of anything. Wildrider returned his worried look, but neither of them wanted to be next on Motormaster's List of Things to Hit, so they said nothing.

"If you're finished posturing, Optimus Prime has ordered that you be separated," Prowl said. "Two of you must come with me."

If looks could kill, there would have been nothing but a smoking crater where Prowl stood, but as it was, Motormaster could only glare. For a long, tense moment he said nothing at all.

Finally, he spoke. "Breakdown, Dead End." Motormaster jerked his head in the direction of the door.

_That __makes__ sense_, Breakdown thought, casting a final look at Wildrider and Drag Strip before hurrying across the repair bay to stand near the entrance. Dead End followed him at a more leisurely pace. Until Drag Strip recovered, Wildrider would be welded to his side, and Motormaster was the only one who could control _him_. And now that he'd finished reporting to Megatron, Motormaster would consider defending Drag Strip his primary duty. That left Breakdown and Dead End.

Prowl stared down at them, making Breakdown twitch, and he instinctively grabbed Dead End's hand. Dead End stiffened at the touch, reminding him too late that Dead End was mad at him.

Breakdown wasn't sure what he'd done to frag him off, but the fact that Dead End had been avoiding him lately had been so obvious even Drag Strip had noticed it. Breakdown thought it might be because his plans kept failing and Dead End really hated being human, even though that wasn't exactly fair. How could he have known that a Combaticon would receive their comm, or that the Autobots would stop them from getting to Hook? He couldn't predict _everything._

But he honestly didn't care what the reason was. He just wanted Dead End to like him again.

Dead End didn't pull his hand away though, and even returned Breakdown's careful grip when Prowl summoned yet another Autobot to escort them to their new prison. Just one Autobot, and his alt-mode looked slow as slag, but even if Breakdown had wanted to run there was nowhere to run to. And Drag Strip's repairs might depend on their obedience.

So he and Dead End walked ahead of the Autobot, taking this turn and that as the Autobot instructed them to. Breakdown memorized the route, for all the good that would do, because it distracted him from the knowledge that their guard's optics were boring holes into his back. He nearly forgot it all, though, when another Autobot abruptly stepped out of an open room and blocked the corridor just before them.

They halted at once, as did their guard. Breakdown vaguely registered Dead End's hand tightening on his, but he couldn't have looked away from the Autobot if he had wanted to. The paintjob was red, white and grey, and a jutting shoulder cannon didn't look like what Drag Strip would consider streamlined, but the shoulder wheels and fender panels…

_He__ transforms __into__ a__ Lamborghini._ Breakdown tore his gaze away from the Autobot and stared at the orange floor.

"Red?" their guard said. "Everything okay?"

"Where are they going?" the other Autobot said. "The brig is that way."

"Yeah, but they could slip out between the bars real easy now. Heh." There was a brief pause, during which no one else laughed. "Uh, Prowl said to—"

"They should be confined in a far more secure location." Red's voice was taut with suspicion, and the back of Breakdown's neck prickled. "Take it easy on them and they'll just cause trouble, sabotage whatever they can. Wait and see." He moved aside, but Breakdown didn't need to look up to know that he was staring at them, and the crawling feeling didn't subside until a door had slid shut behind them.

Compared to the repair bay, the room they were led to was tiny, not much bigger than a storage closet, but there was still plenty of space for the human furniture it had been filled with. An overstuffed couch awaited them, along with a television set, bookshelf, coffeepot and even a tiny refrigerator. Based on that and the smaller entry keypad positioned much closer to the floor, Breakdown guessed this room was normally a lounge for the Autobots' human allies.

But to them it was still a cage, no matter how comfortably furnished.

To his disappointment, Dead End let go of his hand the moment the door swished shut. The lock engaged with a heavy _clunk _that matched the sinking feeling in the pit of Breakdown's stomach. _He__'__s__ still__ mad__ at __me._

He watched with a growing sense of despair as Dead End headed over to the bookshelf and began perusing the titles, acting as if he were the only mech in the room.

_What __did __I__ do?_ Breakdown thought in frustration. _Wildrider__'__s__ the__ one__ who__ gave__ out__ our__ address, __not__ me._He flung himself onto the couch with a huff.

"Why does everyone always blame everything on me?" he said. It occurred to him a moment later that he'd done his share to cause their current troubles by slagging the matter-energy convertor to the point where it turned them into humans, but he felt too resentful to care. _Maybe __it__'__s__ a__ good__ thing__ I_ did _damage __it,__ or __else __it__ might __have__ done__ what __it__ was__ supposed__ to__ do__ and __turned __us __all__ into__ energon__ cubes._

Dead End had bent down to pick something up, but now he straightened, half-turning to look at him. "To whom are you referring?"

"To you. To everyone." He crossed his arms, glaring at nothing. "You all expect me to be the ideas mech – Breakdown, find a way to contact the base! Breakdown, figure out a way for us to earn enough money to buy a computer! Breakdown, come up with a plan to steal a ship so we can sail out to the _Nemesis-!__"_

"Actually, finding the current location of the space bridge would have offered better odds of success." Dead End pulled a large, thin booklet off the shelf and then joined him on the couch. "Rumor has it Shockwave's aim is notoriously bad. Possibly due to his lack of depth perception."

Breakdown stared at him, torn between feeling hurt and incredulous. "Then why didn't you suggest that?"

Dead End shrugged. "Since when does anyone ever listen to me?"

Breakdown knew he should be angry at him for not speaking up, for allowing him to agonize for days while he indulged in his sulk, but all he felt was relief. _At __least __he's__ talking __to__ me__ again._

"I would have," he said.

Dead End turned to look at him, setting the booklet aside – a brief glance revealed it was some kind of atlas – and for a brief moment, something flickered in the depths of his eyes. "We should get some recharge."

"All right," he said. Did that mean he was forgiven? They hadn't shared a berth since his last plan failed. Then again, the couch was the only place in the room to sleep, and Breakdown could easily imagine Dead End opting to share and ignore him over recharging on the cold metal floor.

Whichever it was, he allowed Dead End to get settled and then lay down beside him – or at least he tried to. The couch was simply too narrow for them to lie side-by-side, so in the end Breakdown was forced to lie practically on top of him.

"Sorry," he whispered, squirming to find a more comfortable position. Suddenly the room seemed much warmer than it had a moment ago. Dead End made a noncommittal noise, evidently untroubled.

Breakdown wished he could say the same. Here they were, prisoners being held captive in enemy territory, outnumbered and outgunned with one of their own severely injured, and all he could think of was _how__ slagging __good __Dead __End__ smelled_.

It wasn't the sharp-yet-sweet scent of carnauba wax and expensive polish Dead End used to have, but it was familiar nonetheless. That same scent had lulled Breakdown into recharge many a night since they'd become human – and it was the first breath he'd caught of it in days.

His hands began to drift of their own accord, and his mouth settled on Dead End's neck, tasting the pulse that throbbed beneath the skin.

Dead End tensed beneath him. "Breakdown?"

"I want you," he said.

For a moment Dead End said nothing. "You do realize this room is likely full of cameras?"

He stiffened at that, his shoulders drawing up instinctively. Somehow that possibility hadn't occurred to him, although in hindsight it should have. He'd been so relieved to escape the Autobots and their staring optics that he'd forgotten they were probably being monitored on surveillance cameras as well.

But something deeper than paranoia or instinct told him that if he backed down now, the angry ache inside him might never go away. "I don't care," he said, slipping a hand between them. "Let 'em watch."

Dead End's startled gasp of pleasure made his circuits warm with pride. _Let__ them__ see_. He captured Dead End's lips in a fierce kiss. _Let__ them__ see__ that__ you__'__re __mine_.

Dead End shuddered, clutching at his shoulders, his lips brushing against Breakdown's ear. Breakdown's fuel pump lurched, the sound of it pounding in his ears so loud he almost missed Dead End's quiet whisper.

"Motormaster means to escape. We need to find a way to get out of here."

Breakdown couldn't help wilting a little. "What, _now?_"

"Don't stop," Dead End replied, sounding a little out of breath. "Under the circumstances, I doubt they're eavesdropping."

"Oh," he said, catching on. He leaned down again, nuzzling the spot just behind Dead End's right ear. He didn't bother to ask when Motormaster had given this new order; the answer was obvious.

He thought for a moment, filling the time by nibbling on Dead End's earlobe. "We could start a fire?"

"And risk leaving our hideous charred corpses behind?" Dead End slid a hand beneath Breakdown's shirt and ran it across his lower back. "No, thank you."

"What about the ventilation system?" He left off Dead End's ear and began kissing his neck, keeping his voice pitched low. "We could fit in there, easy."

"We'd still have to reach it," Dead End replied, trailing his fingers up Breakdown's spine. "If they're monitoring us, they're bound to notice if we start stacking up the furniture."

_If__ they__'__re__ watching __us,__ they__'__ll __see__ everything__ we__ do_. "We need to figure out a way to take out the cameras. We can't do anything with them watching." He risked a glance up at the door. "I could probably do it from that keypad, but I'd need tools and a way to do it without them seeing me."

"I can help with the first part," Dead End said. He shifted beneath Breakdown, working both hands between their bodies. The right drew something cold and hard from his coat and slid it down the front of Breakdown's jeans, while the left gave something warm and hard inside them a firm, gentle stroke. "It was lying on the floor under the bookshelf."

It took Breakdown several minutes and a full-body shudder to collect himself enough to investigate, but the object turned out to be an old flathead screwdriver, perfect for prying off the access panel.

"Thanks," he said.

"That still leaves the issue of being seen," Dead End mused, slipping his arms around Breakdown's waist. "We can override the cameras by gaining access to that panel, but how to do so without being caught? The same is true for the door locks, and virtually anything else we might try."

"What about the lights?"

"Hmm, same problem…but that gives me an idea. It's so simple it might just work."

Breakdown was about to ask what the idea was when Dead End shouted, nearly startling him out of his human skin. "Hey, Autobots! How about killing the lights so we can get some recharge?"

After a pause, a voice that sounded familiar replied over an intercom system, "Very well." The lights dimmed by roughly eighty percent.

Dead End made a disgruntled noise. "I suppose it's better than nothing. At least now we know for sure we're being monitored."

"Yeah," Breakdown said, huddling closer to him. He no longer wanted to be seen. The voice had sounded like the Autobot who'd challenged them outside. _Red_.

"I think it would be unwise to attempt an escape immediately." Dead End stroked his hair. "We'll recharge in shifts, three hours each, then implement our plan."

Three hours' recharge was more than Breakdown had anticipated, although he knew he would still be exhausted when they woke. "Do we have so much time?"

"I think so. Motormaster said twenty-four hours."

"What else did he say?" Breakdown didn't object to escaping their prison, but he wasn't sure what they would do after that. Where would they even go? Even if they escaped from the Ark, they'd be back where they started—trapped in human bodies in a human society, except minus even a temporary base and with the Autobots now knowing what they looked like.

"Nothing. There wasn't time." Dead End shifted away, much to Breakdown's disappointment. "Is it all right with you if I recharge first?"

Breakdown nodded, glancing at the door. There was an Autobot on guard outside—_a __mech__ with __two __optics __and__ debt__ perception_—so he had to find a way past _that_ obstacle too. Just as soon as he overrode the lock.

* * *

Six hours later, Dead End shook him awake. "It's time," he whispered.

Three hours of recharge might have been adequate for a mech, but it was nowhere near enough for a human. Breakdown's head felt heavy and his eyes stung. He disentangled himself from Dead End and struggled up to a sitting position, yawning as he fought to wake up. The last thing he needed was to fumble around with wires and circuits while half-asleep.

At least the room was still dark—well, almost-dark. _No__ one__ will__ see __me._ He crept over to the door, retrieving the screwdriver before it could slip down the leg of his jeans. _I__'__m__ just __a__ shadow_. _Ignore__ me._

But he couldn't shake the feeling that he was being watched, that cameras were monitoring his every move, that unseen eyes were watching him from the dark. His hands shook as he unscrewed and pried off the panel. Trying not to make any sounds, he set it down on the floor by his feet.

_Okay, __that__ was__ the__ easy__ part.__ Now__ how__ to__ extinguish__ which__ wires__ are__ which?_ In the near-darkness, all he could determine was that while the outer trappings of the lounge were scaled down to human size, what lay inside the walls was most definitely not. The wires and cables were thicker than his fingers, clearly Cybertronian. _Like__ us. __Human__ on__ the __outside,__ but__…_

_Never__ mind __that,__ focus__ on__ the__ wires._ Breakdown would have liked some insulating gloves, but the best he could do was wrap his fingers in layers of paper towels. He didn't think those would protect him from any surges of current, but he had to do something.

Swallowing, he reached out for a wire he thought was yellow.

Light flooded the room and a klaxon blared. "Security!" the Autobot's voice snapped over the intercom, carrying even over the wail of the alarm. "The Stunticons are attempting to escape!"

Breakdown started so badly he dropped the screwdriver with a clang. Behind him, he heard Dead End spit out a curse.

_A__ trap,__ and__ we __walked __right__ into __it_. The Autobot hadn't dimmed the lights for their comfort; he'd done it to lure them into trying to break out so he'd be justified in throwing them into the brig. He'd been watching through the cameras all along. Breakdown began to panic. _I __have __to __stop__ the__ cameras!_

He began ripping wires out of the wall in desperation, no longer caring what connected where. Sparks flew in the dark, but his need to escape the cameras overrode his fear of electrocution. He just tried not to let the loose, deadly ends of the cables touch him as he kept yanking at the wires. _It __has __to__ be__ one__ of __these.__ Please,__ it__ has__ to __be._

Something huge and heavy impacted against the door with a loud, shuddering BANG. _No,__ no,__ no_. Sparks shot out of the open panel, burning through the paper towels and scorching his hands. One of the cables dropped loose from the wall and dangled a few inches off the floor; through a terrified haze, Breakdown realized that if it touched the floor, the entire area would become electrified and probably kill them both. Beneath the scream of the klaxon he heard Dead End rummaging around the room, probably looking for a weapon. He tore another handful of cables free.

Something like a powerful but painless _push_ sent him staggering backward, cables nearly slipping from nerveless fingers. A severed connection showered him in a fountain of sparks. The room went dark; the klaxon fell silent.

No power. No _cameras._ Breakdown thought he might topple over from sheer relief, but a pair of strong arms caught him, keeping him on his feet.

"Are you damaged?" Dead End said.

Before he could answer, there was another shuddering THUD, but this time the door gave way.

The snap and spark of broken wires was interrupted by the howl of a siren, the flashes of electric blue joined by hellfire red. An enormous fire truck charged through the gloom, bearing down on them like Motormaster in the mood for crushing.

Now he wished they _had_ started a fire.


	43. Grand Theft Autobot

_Chapter summary :The Stunticons pull out all the stops in their last-ditch effort to return home. _

**Chapter 43 : Grand Theft Autobot**

Motormaster watched in silence as Dead End and Breakdown were made to leave, ushered ahead of their Autobot jailer as usual. Breakdown glanced back at him, but the Autobot moved between them in the next moment, and his massive form cut everything else off from view.

The doors of the repair bay hissed shut, but Motormaster remained where he was, staring ahead of him. Could they escape? He didn't know. He had no idea what the security precautions were like wherever the Autobots were taking half his team. He only knew that they had to be out of the Ark within twenty-four hours.

He'd realized that shortly after Megatron had ended the transmission, leaving him standing alone on the computer banks and looking into a dead screen, his internal components churning with a mixture of battle-readiness and uncertainty. Normally, he would have welcomed the idea of an assault on the Autobot base, but he and his team were human now, more likely to be caught in the crossfire than slagging as many Autobots as they could.

Deeper than that, though, he had a strange feeling something was wrong, something small and yet significant as a single circuit working loose from a motherboard. Something he had missed. Motormaster heard the Autobots talking about Megatron's ultimatum, registered the deep timbre of Optimus Prime's voice among the background sounds, but he ignored all of it as he tried to decipher the maddeningly vague suspicion.

_What_ was wrong? Not something he had said, surely. His responses to his supreme commander had been correct in every way, because he'd known he and his team were walking on a wire. Say the wrong thing, show any insubordination or indication that their thoughts and values were now more human than Decepticon, and he didn't know how Megatron would react. But he'd said and done exactly what he needed to, and Megatron had approved.

Well, right up until the moment when Megatron had suddenly become furious. Motormaster remembered that vividly—it had been like a gun going off in his face.

Now that he came to think about that, though, it _was_ strange. Prime hadn't said anything particularly insulting or condescending to set Megatron off—it had been the usual Autobot drivel, and negotiations at that stage were par for the course, part of the power play. Any Decepticon infuriated by that alone would have to have a genuinely hair-trigger temper, and while Megatron was far from easy-going, he didn't allow his enemies to get under his armor so easily. He considered it a loss of self-control.

So if he had lost that control—or pretended to do so—there had to be a reason for it.

_What did his getting angry accomplish?_ Motormaster wondered. It had made everyone in the room stare openly at the screen, and it had startled the slag out of him personally. Was that what Megatron had intended to do—to draw his attention? And if so, what should he have noticed? Something else Megatron had done or said, something the Autobots wouldn't find significant but Motormaster would?

As if from a distance, he heard Prowl ordering him down off the console, and he moved to obey so he wouldn't have to endure Prime picking him up again. When Prowl told him to proceed ahead and return to the repair bay, he did so without hesitation. He didn't need any distractions as he tried to remember exactly what Megatron had said to him.

Something about the six of them. He recalled that because it had been strange enough for even Prime to have noticed. True, they were five individuals who made a sixth, but when the sixth awoke the other five all but ceased to exist – their bodies and minds were harnessed to serve Menasor's needs. No one ever referred to them as a gestalt of six. Besides, if Megatron got the five of them back he would have Menasor by default—he didn't need to specify their gestalt form.

_Was that a message of some kind? _Motormaster was so deep in thought that he took a wrong turn and only realized it when Prowl snapped a command to halt. He was too preoccupied even to be resentful of an Autobot ordering him around. _The six of us. Was he trying to tell us something?_

After a few moments of mentally worrying the problem, he gave up and tried to remember what else Megatron had said, silently cursing human memory banks that lacked a playback feature. The Ark's corridors, designed with Cybertronians in mind, seemed endless for a human and his legs ached as he kept walking down what felt like a road to nowhere.

_A road. _Now he remembered how Megatron had delivered his ultimatum to Prime – "my way or the highway," he'd said. That hadn't struck Motormaster as unusual at the time, because it was normal for the Stunticons to speak in terms of the roads they loved (or ruled, in his case). But how likely was it that Megatron, who _hadn't_ been built out of an Earth vehicle and who never resorted to human slang, would use such an expression?

_The six of them… my way or the highway… the six… the highway…_

_Highway Six?_

Motormaster's fuel pump jolted in his chest. Was that it? Was Megatron waiting somewhere along that highway for them? He _had_ to be, because how likely was Megatron to plan an attack on the Autobot base, but then obligingly let Prime know exactly how long he had to prepare his defenses? No, when he had given Prime a deadline of a day, that deadline had been meant for Motormaster, to tell him exactly how much time the Stunticons had to escape.

_If we can just do that, if we can reach the meeting-point, we'll be all right. Megatron will be there, he knows what we look like now and he'll take us back home. _Best of all, Motormaster didn't think Prime had realized a thing. Motormaster had never had any difficulty keeping his features blank when he had been a mech, and it was the same for him as a human, but he chuckled under his breath. Did the Autobots think Megatron had chosen his faction's name simply because it sounded cool?

But when he entered the medical bay, he felt less confident. Drag Strip was still offline, and the human doctor refused to wake him up. Motormaster wished the Autobots would leave so that he could tell the rest of the team what Megatron had said, but he quickly realized that the Autobots would never leave him unmonitored.

Hitting Dead End—pulling the punch so that he didn't have yet another subordinate go offline on him—was the only way to give him the message. When he'd gripped the front of Dead End's shirt and pulled him close, he could only hope the Autobots would take his harsh whisper as a threat of some kind, rather than, "We're going to escape. Find a way out. Twenty-four hours." He had no time for any more details.

What he hadn't expected was that the Autobots would separate them, effectively splitting the team in half. It made sense, though, he was forced to admit. The Autobots believed Megatron was going to attack the base to retrieve his warriors, so why not make things more difficult for him by stashing the Stunticons in different places?

But what would they do now? Motormaster was used to acting in cohesion with the rest of his team, drawing on their different abilities and strengths to confront even enemies who outnumbered and outgunned them, except now that wasn't an option. Would Dead End and Breakdown be able to escape on their own somehow, and could they come to free the rest of the team, or would it be better for him to do something… what, he had no idea. He wasn't the one who came up with plans and schemes.

"Motormaster," someone said.

"Shut up, I'm thinking," Motormaster said before he recognized the voice—or rather, _didn't_ recognize it as one of his team's. He turned, then forced himself to look up so he could meet Prowl's optics. Slag, he would never get used to that!

_Once I'm back in my true form, though, he'll have to look up at me… for the split second before I take his head off his shoulders. _That helped, and he waited to hear what Prowl wanted.

"You and Wildrider will come with us," Prowl said, and the doors opened. Jazz started towards them.

_What? _Motormaster had never retreated from any Autobot, but he had to stop himself from taking a step back. They were going to be separated again? _No._

"No!" Wildrider jumped off Drag Strip's berth and clutched the rails on it tightly. "No way. I'm not leaving."

Motormaster swallowed hard. This was Prowl, the Autobot's tactician; he had to come up with a reasonable request to stand any chance of being listened to, much less left alone, and Drag Strip was their only chance. "At least let us stay here until Drag Strip comes back online," he said. "If—if he wakes up and none of his team is here—"

Prowl looked at Dr. Gregory. "Do you know when he'll be online again?" he said, but she only shrugged. Motormaster willed Wildrider to be silent; even though Prowl's face was more expressionless a mask than Motormaster's had ever been, he knew the Autobot was making up his mind.

Abruptly Prowl turned and exchanged a glance with Jazz, who was still standing by the open doors. Whatever they said was over internal comm, and Motormaster stifled his resentment, thinking of how he'd been forced to convey a similarly private message to his team. But after a long moment, Prowl looked back at him.

"Very well," he said. "You may stay here until he's back online, but any sign of trouble—including your particular form of discipline—and you'll leave. This is our repair bay, not your private quarters."

"Understood," Motormaster bit out.

"The bay is monitored," Prowl went on, "and the doors cannot be opened except by Autobot security codes. Do you understand that as well?"

_In other words, don't waste your time trying to get out_. Motormaster couldn't even speak in reply, but he managed a nod. The two Autobots left, the doors closing behind them.

Motormaster looked around the repair bay, but any cameras present were concealed ones and even if they had been in plain sight he didn't think he could have done much about them. Drag Strip's berth, with the monitor beside it and the fluid hooked up to him, looked very much out-of-place beside the rest of the medical equipment. A cooler stood beside the berth, but when Motormaster knelt and checked if there was anything to drink in it, he only found more of Dr. Gregory's medical supplies.

Well, at least he would be able to tell Wildrider about Megatron's plan without needing any elaborate pretenses to cover that up. He stood, intending to call Wildrider over, and the doors of the repair bay opened again. Two Autobots walked in.

Motormaster didn't recognize them immediately, but one had a white helm framed by the V-shape of rotors jutting up from behind—an alt-mode as familiar to Motormaster as Vortex's. There was only one Autobot helicopter. And he knew gestalts, so the other one was a Protectobot too—the police car Streetwise, judging from the wheels.

The damage they'd taken from the Combaticons had been repaired, though, so Motormaster didn't think they were here for that. A cold finger traced the length of his spinal strut as two pairs of blue optics searched the room before alighting on him.

"Come on out here, Motormaster," Streetwise said, crooking a finger. "We'd like to have a little talk with you."

Motormaster met Wildrider's eyes and tilted his head in a sharp jerk towards Drag Strip's berth—_stay with him_. Then he stepped out from behind the berth and approached the two Protectobots with even strides. He made sure to look up at their faces, rather than at the massive red and black-on-white leg components as tall as he was. Whatever shape or form he was in, he was still a Decepticon warrior and the leader of the Stunticons. No Protectobot was going to make him anything less.

He stopped in front of them. The helicopter knelt, staring at him with optics so coldly clear that Motormaster saw tiny twin reflections of himself in them.

Something white blurred forward, and the room upended. Motormaster crashed down on to his back and the whiteness filled the world as his vision filmed over with pain. Every bruise and scrape he'd taken in their escape from the Combaticons made itself felt. He clenched his teeth so that he wouldn't make a sound, and tried to get up.

The helicopter's hand was still extended, and as Motormaster struggled to a sitting position, huge white fingers slid under his back and flipped him over instead. He landed hard on his face, gasping, and a massive weight descended on his back.

He didn't need to see it to know it was the Protectobot's foot, applying just enough pressure to let him know what the Protectobot was capable of doing.

"You tried to kill our brother." Streetwise's voice came as if from a long distance away, and yet Motormaster heard every word clearly. "We saved your lives and you would have murdered him. We're going to make sure you never—"

"Streetwise, stop," First Aid said.

Motormaster turned his head in that direction as best he could. The other Protectobot's foot, heavy as a mountain, didn't permit him much freedom of movement, but he still saw First Aid—from the chest down, anyway—standing in the open doorway.

"Blades, let him go," First Aid went on in the silence that followed.

"He tried to kill you!"

"Because Megatron ordered him to. He left me alone before that."

Streetwise made a contemptuous sound. "Give me a break, Aid. That excuse didn't fly at Nuremberg, and it won't work now."

Motormaster had no idea what Nuremberg was, and he didn't care. "I don't need any help from you, Protectobot!" He could take his own punishment, and that would be a great deal less humiliating than being saved all over again by an Autobot. _That_ Autobot especially.

"Blades, _let him go_." First Aid ignored both Motormaster and Streetwise, and although his voice was quiet and human-small, there was steel in it. "If you really want to beat up a human, you can fight him on your own account. But you won't do it on mine."

In the moments that followed, no one moved or spoke.

Then the weight on Motormaster's back lifted slowly, and was gone. He could barely hear through the roaring in his ears, but he felt the vibrations in the floor as the two Protectobots moved away. First Aid turned and they left together, the two of them on either side of him. The doors slid shut again.

Motormaster struggled up to his hands and knees, and only once he was on his feet again did he give Wildrider a hard look that dared him to say a word about what had just happened. Even Wildrider knew better than to meet his eyes at moments like that.

The fury drained away, though, and Motormaster felt tired instead, as if he had been carrying a load of I-beams across his shoulders for hours. Exhaustion seeped through his struts and seemed to dissolve them. Not caring that a human was watching or that the Autobots were observing through cameras, he leaned against the wall, then slid down it until he was lying on the ground. His side throbbed as well, where he'd been damaged before, but even that seemed faraway and insignificant.

"Boss?" Wildrider sounded worried.

Motormaster bent an elbow beneath his head. "Gonna recharge." His voice sounded thick and slurred. "Wake me up before tw… I mean, in a few hours' time."

He closed his eyes.

* * *

What woke him wasn't Wildrider; it was an unpleasant sensation of rising heat, as though the Autobots had reset the environmental controls in the repair bay as some form of torture. Motormaster struggled to a sitting position, blinking hard. Even his vision seemed to take some time to reset, and when he looked around he saw Wildrider bent over Drag Strip's berth, evidently having forgotten all about waking him up.

"Hey, boss!" he said, beckoning excitedly at Motormaster. "He's waking up!"

"Which is exactly what I wasn't doing!" Motormaster snapped. His mouth felt as though someone had poured glue into it while he was asleep, and when he got to his feet he swayed slightly. Hot though the room was, his skin felt paper-dry.

"You have a fever," Dr. Gregory said when he looked around again, wondering why no one else seemed to be in similar discomfort. "Probably caused by an infection of some kind."

Motormaster glanced down at his side reflexively. That was leaking again, but slowly—it had pasted his shirt to his skin—but he didn't seem likely to deactivate soon. Besides, he never indulged his battle damage. He went over to the berth, but scowled when he saw Drag Strip wasn't fully online yet—his eyelids flickered and he didn't seem to focusing on anything even when his eyes were half-open.

"The Autobots left some food for us," Wildrider said, pointing at a small wheeled table.

Motormaster eyed the paper bags with indifference, because he didn't feel hungry at all. There were a couple of tall cups with straws sticking out of them, though, so he grabbed the nearest one and sucked at it while he slapped Drag Strip lightly a few times.

"What are you _doing?_" Dr. Gregory said, though Motormaster noticed she was careful to keep her distance.

"Waking him up, what does it look like?" He finally lost patience and tipped some melting ice cubes out of his cup onto Drag Strip's face. Drag Strip gasped and blinked, shaking his head.

_Good. _Wildrider began burbling happily, but Motormaster got down to business at once. "We're in the Ark," he said, and leaned closer to whisper. "But we're getting out. Megatron has a plan."

Drag Strip blinked at him, and for a moment Motormaster wondered if the damage had affected his CPU as well. But then he mumbled, "'m thirsty."

Wildrider grabbed some napkins and blotted Drag Strip's face while Motormaster held a second cup so the straw was within reach, but Drag Strip only took a few mouthfuls before his head sank back to the berth, and didn't look any better. There were dark circles of sunken flesh around his eyes, and his mouth was drawn tight.

"I can't," he said, so quietly that Motormaster would not have heard him if the repair bay had not been silent except for the beep of monitors, the hum of machines and the whir of the ventilation system.

"You can't what?" he replied.

"Can't move." Drag Strip's lips barely moved either as he said, "Can't escape."

"Have something to eat and you'll feel better." Wildrider was optimistic as always. "We got tamales. But you have to take off the leaf wrappings _before_ you eat them, did you know that?"

Drag Strip closed his eyes. "Leave me alone."

Wildrider's smile faded. "You're not starting that again, are you? Come on, sunshine. Look, I even saved your coat for you!" He held up a handful of bloodstained yellow rags.

"I can't move my legs!" Drag Strip snapped, though Motormaster thought with some satisfaction that it was at least a little more animation than he'd shown before. "How the frag am I supposed to—"

Motormaster clamped a hand across his mouth before he could say anything more, then slowly lifted it. "All right," he said softly. "Just what _do_ you want to do?"

Drag Strip turned his head away. "Tell me the truth. How bad is it?"

"The medic says there was damage to your spinal strut, which is probably why you can't move your legs," Motormaster said. He had never indulged anyone else's battle damage either. "But it doesn't matter. You're still with us." _During our escape_.

Drag Strip's mouth tightened to a thin line. "And what if I can't ever walk again?" There was a pause, and he continued more quietly. "You should get it over with."

Wildrider looked confused. "Get what over with?"

"Just kill me. Quickly. I don't want to live like this."

The silence following that was a little longer, but it ended when Wildrider shrugged. "OK," he said. Drag Strip's eyes opened, but before he could reply, Wildrider went on. "Can I 'face you first?"

"After I'm done," Motormaster said, and popped the top button of his shirt. "I want to have something to remember him by."

Drag Strip's mouth dropped open. "You slaggers!"

"Done feeling sorry for yourself?" Motormaster tossed his cup over his shoulder. "Good. Now shut up and listen."

"Boss…" Wildrider said, glancing at something in a corner of the repair bay.

"Be quiet and let me finish." Motormaster leaned closer to Drag Strip. "Once we reach Megatron, he'll change us back." Megatron hadn't actually said that, but Motormaster knew their commander wouldn't let them remain human if he had the power to reverse that condition. "And once that happens you'll be fine."

"Really?" Drag Strip didn't look as though he believed it.

"Yeah. Remember when the convertor changed us? You idiots had been fighting, but there was no damage on your human bodies, was there?" Motormaster gave him a moment to think about that. "So when it changes us back, you can race around again like you've got a missile up your tailpipe."

"Boss!" Wildrider said, and that time Motormaster turned to look. Dr. Gregory was standing as far from them as possible, eyes fixed on them as she jabbed repeatedly at a small device she held.

"What the…?" He straightened up, grimacing at the pain in his side. "Wildrider, get it off her!"

"Stay back!" Dr. Gregory said, holding the device as if it was supposed to ward them off. "I've contacted the Autobots. They'll be here at any moment!"

A communicator or a panic button or both, Motormaster thought. He shook his head at Wildrider; they didn't have time to waste with the human medic. The Autobots would be on their way regardless, since Prowl had told him he could only remain in the repair bay until Drag Strip had woken up.

_Well, to the Pit with that. My team isn't going to be separated again._ He leaned forward over Drag Strip and spoke softly to Wildrider.

"We're staying together," he said. "You're the terrorist. You come up with something."

Wildrider's eyes gleamed.

* * *

Two minutes later, they were outside the repair bay. "Move," one of the Autobots ordered. "That way." He gestured with the barrel of his rifle.

They obeyed, and were marched down the corridor. Motormaster couldn't even see their shadows; they were lost in the huge silhouettes of the two Autobots who had come to the repair bay for them, and who now walked behind them with heavy clanking steps.

His fever seemed to be growing worse—why didn't humans have a better internal temperature control system?—and he was still tired. He didn't know where they were being led, but it didn't matter, and he trudged with slumping shoulders.

Wildrider matched his pace, though he didn't seem to be feeling the heat. His jacket was zipped up to his throat and he walked with his arms wrapped around himself.

"So…" one of the Autobots said. "How's Drag Strip?"

"He's gonna be fine," Wildrider said, then took a look back over his shoulder at the Autobot. "Hey, I remember you!"

Motormaster stopped and glanced at the Autobot too, disliking his appearance at once because of the features he had in common with Prowl. The paintjob was slightly different, though, silver and black with red accents.

"What?" The Autobots had stopped too, because the only other option was to keep walking and step on them.

Wildrider smiled. "Yeah, we had some fun during that race. You wanted me so bad you grabbed onto my roof and wouldn't let go!"

"It wasn't like that!" The Autobot's doorwings twitched. "I was just trying to—"

"—cut yourself a sweet slice of Stunticon? The faster I went, the tighter you held on."

"Shut the frag up," the other Autobot cut in. His paintjob was as yellow as Drag Strip's, and Motormaster felt as though it stung his eyes with its intensity. Or was that another effect of the fever? "Just ignore him, Bluestreak."

Wildrider's grin grew broader and more suggestive. "Wouldn't let go till I got you off."

_Bluestreak?_ Motormaster couldn't see even a speck of blue on the Autobot. He shook his head, trying to collect his thoughts.

"Wildrider, be quiet," he said.

"Your little leader's talking sense for once," the other Autobot said, hefting his rifle to rest across his shoulder. "Maybe you should listen to him."

Wildrider leaned against the wall and folded his arms. "Why, you jealous?"

The Autobot snorted. "As if."

"Oh, right," Wildrider said, beaming more broadly than ever. "I forgot! You'd rather ride a Seeker, wouldn't you? Hey, which one's your favorite?"

"That's enough," Motormaster said, his fuel pump thudding hard.

"Shut. Up." The other Autobot's optics flared a balefire blue.

"Uh, Sunstreaker…" Bluestreak began.

"Is it Thundercracker? Or Ramjet?" Wildrider said. "He _likes_ mid-air collisions. I think they make him overload—but you'd know that already. Ooooh, wait, I bet it's Starscream!" The yellow Autobot took a threatening step towards him, but Wildrider kept going. "You want me to put in a good word for ya when we get back to the _Nemesis_? Screamer'd probably go for it, as long as you hit the washracks first, cleaned out your joints, maybe gave yourself a wax. Dead End could give you a few pointers—"

"Sunny, don't—"

"Wildrider, shut up!"

"—shame about your paintjob, though. Ever think of painting yourself purple?"

Sunstreaker swung his rifle like a club. The tip of the barrel struck Wildrider hard across one arm, spinning him around and propelling him face-first into the wall. Motormaster heard a muffled liquidy _thud_, and blood splattered from Wildrider's body, spraying past the edges of his jacket.

Without a sound, without another movement, Wildrider slid down slowly to the floor, leaving a red smear on the wall. Blood continued to trickle from his limp body, forming a spreading pool on the floor. The two Autobots stared, frozen.

"You—killed—him." Motormaster was at Wildrider's body in the next moment, feeling for a pulse. He turned to stare at the Autobots. "You murdered him!"

There was a staticky click as Bluestreak reset his vocalizer. "I—I—is he really dead? I didn't think Sunstreaker hit him_ that_—"

"It's on me." Sunstreaker's voice was small and horrified. He stared down at his fender panels, which were covered in small dots of drying blood. "It's _all over me_."

Motormaster shook his head, hoping the gesture conveyed as much disgust as possible, and addressed Bluestreak. "He did this to a human and he's worried about his fragging paintjob?"

Bluestreak didn't even seem to hear. "Is he really dead?" He went to his knees and stretched out a hand tentatively, but stopped short of touching Wildrider's body.

Motormaster took a moment to check Wildrider's pulse again. "No," he said, "but he needs medical help. He's leaking badly." Blood was soaking cold into his pants legs as well. "Well, don't just stand there. Do something!"

* * *

Dr. Gregory was beside Drag Strip's berth, trying to fit some sort of large, padded restraining device around his upper arm, but she turned around when the doors opened. The device fell to the floor, but she didn't seem to notice as she gaped at them, open-mouthed.

Bluestreak hurried in, Wildrider's limp form cradled in his arms and still dripping blood—Sunstreaker had been too panicked at the idea of getting any more of it on his chassis. Motormaster followed, half-running and half-stumbling by then; the throbbing heat in his side had grown to a stabbing agony and the world felt like a furnace. He clutched the doorway of the repair bay for support, then forced himself to straighten up as Sunstreaker's heavy steps echoed through even the humming in his ears.

One ear, anyway—Brawl's sonic weapon seemed to have taken the other one out for good. _Doesn't matter. Megatron's waiting. _He staggered into the repair bay as Bluestreak laid Wildrider carefully down on the floor.

"What the hell happened?" Dr. Gregory looked as though someone had hit her between the eyes, and Motormaster derived a sliver of satisfaction from that. At least now she didn't seem thrilled at the prospect of having a Decepticon-gestalt-turned-human all to herself to examine and write about.

"It wasn't Sunny's fault," Bluestreak said. "Well, not entirely his fault, because he didn't mean to hurt Wildrider so bad, it just happened because Wildrider kept making fun of him and talking about him jumping the Seekers, which is kinda what Sunny likes doing, but it's not to 'face them, it's to—"

"Blue, will you _shut up?_" Sunstreaker sounded utterly unhinged. "Just—" He gestured at them wildly. "Just get her to fix him! And don't tell Prowl until I'm back!" He turned and dashed out of the repair bay.

"But—wait! Sunny!" Bluestreak stopped as the doors closed again, and turned back to Dr. Gregory. "_Can_ you fix him?"

"I'll do my best." She knelt next to Motormaster and closed her fingers around Wildrider's wrist. "His pulse and breathing seem normal, anyway. Did… Sunny?... go to fetch help?"

"Either that or the washracks," Bluestreak said, crouching down. "Can I do anything? I feel really bad about this—I mean, I know Wildrider's a Stunticon and everything, but he's human now and much smaller than we are, so we shouldn't have—"

Dr. Gregory moved to unzip Wildrider's soaked jacket, and Motormaster moved as fast as he could, grabbing her hand. "You could tell Prowl," he said to Bluestreak, to forestall the Autobot trying to get between him and Dr. Gregory to defend her. "Or Prime."

Bluestreak's doorwings quivered. "Maybe…" He gave them a hopeful look. "Maybe we could report this to Prowl after we fix Wildrider? I mean, that's the most important thing, right?"

"Right," Dr. Gregory said. "Make him let go of my hand, please. I need it to work."

Motormaster released her, glanced down at Wildrider's face and then back at Bluestreak. "Get First Aid," he said. "He can help, and…" He had to swallow hard to say the next part. "And I trust him more than I do the rest of you slaggers. Get him."

Bluestreak nodded. "I'll be as quick as I can," he said, and rushed out.

The moment the doors slid shut, Wildrider's eyes opened. "Hey, boss," he said chirpily. "Hiya, sunshine, I told you we'd be back!"

Dr. Gregory stared at him. "How the… I knew you weren't hurt, but where's all this blood…" Suddenly she yanked Wildrider's jacket open, too quickly for Motormaster to stop her again. She shoved a hand inside and pulled out some deflated, dripping plastic bags covered with labels.

"Oh yeah, I took some of that zero plus blood you had in the cooler over there," Wildrider said, arching so he could pull a few more bags out from behind his back. "Hey, d'you have some clothes I could wear? Mine are all wet now. Well, except for the T-shirt I won in the contest, but I don't wanna mess that up."

Dr. Gregory flung the bags down and got to her feet. "You wasted medical supplies, do you realize that? And when the Autobots find out you tricked them—" She wiped a hand on her coat and felt in her pocket.

"Looking for this?" Motormaster held up her communicator, and smiled despite the pain as he struggled up to his feet. He dropped the device on the floor and ground his heel down on it until it cracked. Dr. Gregory took a cautious step back.

"You just keep your mouth shut and we'll leave you alone," he said, though he knew he hadn't bought them much more time. As Prowl had said, the repair bay was monitored and Bluestreak would probably return at any moment.

Wildrider was perched on the edge of the berth, still covered in blood from the neck down but looking as cheerful as always. He swung his legs back and forth as he told Drag Strip what had happened, and the berth slid an inch or two in either direction on its little wheels as he did so, although Drag Strip wasn't reacting to either that or Wildrider's story. Motormaster started towards them. He didn't think even Wildrider would be able to get them out of the repair bay, past all the Autobots' security precautions, but he couldn't think of anything else to do.

Before he could reach the two of them, though, an alarm began to wail outside. The thick doors muffled the sound, but Motormaster whirled in that direction anyway—too fast. The room spun around him before slowly settling, and his stomach roiled. Had Sunstreaker realized their trick and raised the alarm? Were the Autobots watching through the cameras in the repair bay?

The doors slid open. Motormaster's fuel pump leaped into his throat. He'd seen what Sunstreaker was like when he was angry, and while he was no coward, he was also in no condition to confront the Autobot. Or was it Streetwise and Blades, coming back to beat the slag out of him?

Standing in the open doorway, though, was a sight far more unnerving than either the Protectobots or Sunstreaker.

It was an Aerialbot.

The floor lurched under Motormaster's feet and began to drop away. He couldn't even make out the Aerialbot's entire form, though he didn't know whether that was from shock or the effects of the fever. Individual details sprang out at him instead—the tall point of a nosecone, blue optics, a red undercarriage, wings—one crumpled and twisted—that would never flip up in transformation. The Aerialbot's shadow fell over him, large as a cloud swollen with lightning.

He tried to say something, but his throat locked up as though he was being strangled. The Aerialbots had been created to fight his team, had been made with that one purpose in mind, and he had never been more aware of it than in that moment.

And then the Aerialbot spoke.

"Oh, hi," he said. "Who are you guys? Where's Ratchet?"

_Who are you guys? Doesn't he _know? _Or is this a trick?_ Motormaster glanced back over his shoulder, but Wildrider looked equally bewildered. Dr. Gregory opened her mouth, but before she could say anything the Aerialbot continued.

"Is he OK?" He stepped into the repair bay, staring at Drag Strip before his gaze shifted to Wildrider, who was edging along the wall towards Dr. Gregory. "Whoa. Hey, what happened to you guys?"

_He doesn't know!_ A last hope flared, and Motormaster swallowed, struggling to speak calmly. "My friends need to get to a hospital,," he said. "We were just about to leave."

"Well, you wanna be careful." The doors of the repair bay hissed shut and the Aerialbot pulled himself up to a berth, where he sat with his legs dangling—looking, part of Motormaster's mind thought absently, much like Wildrider had a few moments earlier. "I just heard over the intercom that the Stunticons are loose in the Ark."

Motormaster forgot about fever and exhaustion, forgot about Drag Strip's condition, forgot even about Megatron. They'd done it, his team had done it. Half of his team, anyway. For once, they hadn't failed.

"Oh yeah, the Stunticons," he said as casually as he could, and pointed at Drag Strip's motionless form. "They ran him over."

"Did they bust your wing up too?" Wildrider said. He had positioned himself beside Dr. Gregory, smiling at her in a way that was half amused and half insane and completely unpredictable, and that seemed to be keeping her quiet—for the time being.

The Aerialbot glanced down as if noticing the damaged wing for the first time. "Oh. No, we had a race and I, uh, hit a pylon." Motormaster thought Drag Strip might have been listening avidly under any other circumstances, but he lay still with his eyes closed. "Couldn't fly any more, so I headed back. If you like, you can stay here until we get the Stunticons back in the brig."

Wildrider's smile sharpened at that, bright as a blade—he'd started to lose his tenuous grip on sanity when they had once been thrown into the Ark's brig—but the Aerialbot seemed oblivious as he went on. "As soon as Ratchet fixes my wing I'm gonna help round those slaggers up. Raid and Slingshot are so jealous—I told them, and I think they're burning out their engines to get back here."

Motormaster's fuel turned cold. "We'd better leave, then," he said. "If you and the other Aerialbots are engaging enemies as… violent and dangerous… as the Stunticons, Ratchet might need the repair bay's facilities. We'd only be in the way. And like I said, my friends should go to a good hospital."

"Oh, right." The Aerialbot levered himself down from the berth, wincing as his damaged wing tapped against a wall, and went to the doors, while Wildrider closed a hand around Dr. Gregory's arm and drew her over to Drag Strip's berth. It was the work of a few moments for her to disconnect the tubes hooked up to Drag Strip, while the Aerialbot entered his security code into the keypad. Drag Strip was actually looking around by then, though when he tried to sit up, he sank back against the pillow with a gasp.

Motormaster went over, grabbed one end of the berth and wheeled it across the repair bay, to where the Aerialbot was holding the doors open for him. His fists tightened on the berth until the knuckles stood out whitely. The Aerialbot _towered_ over him, taller than even most of the other Autobots, the wingspan making him look even more massive. Motormaster knew very well that size was intimidating… but he was usually on the other side of that equation.

And he had to walk past that Aerialbot, past firepower which could vaporize him, past limbs which could leave him smeared on the wall. Motormaster was no coward, but he didn't dare look up into the Aerialbot's face, and his ventilations came so fast that he began to feel light-headed again. Only the solidity of the berth's rails under his hands kept him grounded. Drag Strip couldn't get out of there under his own power, so Motormaster had to take him, just as he had carried his subordinates in his trailer when they'd been too badly damaged from battle to drive.

He rolled the berth past the Aerialbot, hoping desperately that no Autobots would be in the corridor outside. Their luck held, though. It was empty, and as soon as they were out of the repair bay Wildrider came racing over, leaving a trail of wet red footprints behind him. The Aerialbot stepped back into the repair bay and the doors slid shut.

Motormaster immediately began rolling the berth away as fast as he could. Wildrider kicked off his shoes, then stripped off his jacket and ran to catch up as they ducked into the first turn. Panting, Motormaster took in the long stretch of yet another dimly-lit corridor.

In the distance he heard the repair bay doors slide open, the sound nearly drowned by the rapid clank as the Aerialbot rushed out.

_No need to wonder if he knows now._ Motormaster steered the berth into the only possible hiding-place, a doorway in the side of the corridor. It would never have hidden them in their true forms, but it was slightly recessed, and if he turned Drag Strip's berth sideways it would just fit into the doorway. He could only hope the Aerialbot would—

The heavy clanking approached the turn in the passage.

"Fireflight!" Bluestreak's voice rang out. "What are you guys doing back here? No, wait, you can tell me later, right now I need to check up on…"

Motormaster didn't wait to hear any more; the two idiots could keep each other occupied while he figured out what to do next. Carefully, trying not to bang the edges of the berth against the doorway—more out of a need for silence than a wish to keep Drag Strip comfortable—he maneuvered the berth out and rolled it down the corridor as fast as he could.

"Where are we going?" Drag Strip whispered.

"Away from them." Padding alongside him, Wildrider had also disposed of his soaked shirt, and was naked to the waist except for a small package which he clutched tightly to his chest. Motormaster would have asked him what the frag that was, if he hadn't been breathless from pushing the berth, which was heavy, unwieldy, and slagging near unmaneuverable. He thought of asking Wildrider to do that instead, then realized Wildrider would probably shove it with all his strength and leap on for the ride.

"In other words, we don't know where?" Drag Strip said.

"You must have enjoyed being offline, because you're about to go there again," Motormaster said, and halted the berth just before they reached the end of the corridor, No alarm was sounding, but that meant nothing; the news of their escape was probably flying through the Ark, and the lack of an alarm was probably so the Autobots could hear even human footsteps at a distance.

And as the surge of energy from their narrow escape began to ebb away, he felt more weary than ever. _Primus. What are we going to do?_

A soft trundling sound nearby made them all freeze. Motioning Wildrider to keep still, Motormaster edged to the end of the corridor and peered out cautiously.

Two humans were heading towards them, only nine or ten feet away. Motormaster barely noticed the one who was standing, because the other one was seated—in a chair with wheels that rolled easily along.

He beckoned Wildrider and stepped out into the corridor, blocking their path.

"Hey, who are…" one of them began, and then he stopped. With a swift yank on the chair's handlebars, he pivoted it in a half-circle, trying to escape, but Motormaster grabbed it.

"Help!" the human shouted. "It's the Stunt—"

Motormaster's fist slammed into his jaw. The punch spun him around and he crashed to the floor. The other human, still in the chair, stared at them with eyes wide behind his visor, but before he could start yelling too, Motormaster caught the front of his shirt and hauled him out of the chair.

"Make room for someone who needs it, slagger!" He dumped the human on top of the other one's prone body and turned to lift Drag Strip out of the berth.

"Hey, boss," Wildrider said, pointing at the first human. "Can I take his boots?"

Motormaster ignored him, because even moving Drag Strip into the chair—which should have been effortless, given that Drag Strip had always been the smallest and lightest of the team—made the pain in his side feel as though he was being stabbed all over again. Wildrider evidently took that as an affirmative, because he quickly yanked off the human's boots and thrust his bare feet into them.

"Look, sunshine!" he said, getting up to display them. "Your favorite color!"

Drag Strip's mouth had tightened into a grimace as Motormaster moved him into the chair, his face drawn, but he opened his eyes a fraction. "No heels," he managed to say.

Motormaster supposed he had to be feeling better if he was fussing about footwear again. He just wished he could say the same for himself, and he gave the chair a particularly hard push. Drag Strip gasped, slumping sideways in the chair, and Motormaster wondered if he wasn't even capable of sitting up straight any longer. Though at least the chair was in better condition, and his shove had sent it a good few yards ahead. It was much lighter than the berth, and easier to steer as a result.

He would have liked to know where to steer _to_, though. Getting away from the two humans seemed like a good idea, but where could they go after that? Dead End and Breakdown would probably head back to the repair bay to get the rest of them out, but the repair bay was more dangerous than the Dinobots' holding pen at the moment.

Still wheeling Drag Strip's chair down the corridor, Motormaster took a turn just so they would be out of sight of the humans and then stopped, feeling irresolute. Should he try to get one half of his team to safety—what safety there was in the Ark for them, meaning none—or should he return to the repair bay to at least try to head off the other half before they were recaptured? His head ached, and his internal temperature kept climbing, making it more and more difficult to think.

"This chair has a squeaky wheel," Drag Strip said.

"D'you want me to carry you?"

"No, no, you can barely hear it," Drag Strip said hastily. "But, um, shouldn't we be going somewhere?"

"Well, you tell me where the frag to go and I'll wheel you there!" The corridors of molten orange metal seemed huge, but at the same time Motormaster thought they were growing smaller and closer around him, penning him in. And he had the sickening feeling that no matter where they went, they would run in circles through a maze while the Autobots watched, laughing and waiting for them to exhaust themselves so they could close in for the—

"Boss," Wildrider said softly but urgently.

Motormaster's head came up and he looked in the direction Wildrider was staring. The blocky shadow of a large Autobot slanted past the turn of the corridor from which they had come.

Hands tightening on the chair, Motormaster wheeled it as fast as he could in the opposite direction. In the distance, tires squealed against the floor and an engine growled.

Then it revved, as the Autobot spotted them and gave chase.

Motormaster hurried faster—and dropped to his knees, as pain bit into his side with white-hot teeth. He couldn't go on, and he knew it.

"Get him away, Wildrider," he said through his teeth. "Get somewhere safe."

"But—"

"_Go!_" Motormaster swung a fist in Wildrider's general direction—since he was kneeling and could barely see at that point, he missed by a good yard, but Wildrider leaped aside out of reflex and then hurried to grab the chair. Motormaster put a trembling hand on the wall and hauled himself to his feet as the chair rolled away. He'd buy them time, somehow.

He turned to face the Autobot, who was little more than a dark shape which seemed to fill the entire corridor as it closed the distance between them. Not even speeding up, he realized. The Autobot knew he was hurt and intended to take him alive.

Abruptly the Autobot's headlights switched on. _To make me an easy target_, Motormaster thought and glanced back over his shoulder—not so much to look away from the Autobot as to see, with eyes still stinging from the glare, whether Wildrider and Drag Strip had escaped by then.

The cold bright glow lit up the end of the corridor, and the closed door before which Wildrider stood. The chair and Drag Strip were almost hidden behind him.

Motormaster's internal components felt as though they had turned to lead. The headlights went off, and the corridor seemed even darker. The rumble of the Autobot's engine filled the world.

"Motormaster!" someone yelled over the sound.

The voice had sounded like Breakdown's, but Motormaster knew he had only imagined it. Slowly, with the last of his strength, he turned around to face the Autobot.

"Motormaster!" A door snapped open. "Get in! Hurry the frag up!"

And the next light which went on was inside the Autobot's cab. Breakdown was behind the wheel, Dead End sitting beside him. Wildrider let out a whoop of joy and rushed forward, then seemed to remember Drag Strip and ran back to get him. Motormaster stood where he was, staring at the motionless fire truck before him, and it was only after Breakdown and Wildrider had levered Drag Strip inside that he managed to join them.

"How…" he began. "How did you…" He was half afraid that would be another of those strange pseudosensory events that happened in recharge, where he saw things that weren't really happening.

"We were trying to override the lock in the room where they kept us, and I pulled most of the wires loose." Breakdown extended a hand to him and Motormaster caught it, too relieved to feel chagrined about the fact that he couldn't climb into the fire truck unaided. "Then this Autobot slammed through the door in alt-mode and tried to run us down. One of the wires hit him, and—"

"And produced a state of temporary incapacitation that's unlikely to last for long," Dead End finished for him. "So we should probably leave before he transforms and kills us all."

A fire truck didn't have much speed to speak of, and apart from Highway Six, Motormaster didn't know where they were going, but he could worry about that later, and at least there was enough room in the Autobot's alt-mode for the five of them. He slumped back against the inside of the passenger compartment.

"Stunticons," he said, "roll out."

Breakdown slammed the door shut and did so.


	44. Crossing the Finish Line

_Chapter summary : The finish line is in sight… and the Autobots are in pursuit._

* * *

**Chapter 44 : Crossing the Finish Line**

Breakdown had expected the array of Cybertronian technology inside the Autobot's passenger compartment, but the stick shift took him aback. He wasn't used to driving with one, and ended up jolting the fire truck back and forth until he figured it out.

Dead End was no help. When the fire truck had charged at them, he'd thrown himself at Breakdown to knock them both out of the way and had landed hard on one elbow. Now, he poked about in the interior of the passenger compartment, observed gloomily that there was no first aid kit and slumped in his seat beside Breakdown as they drove out of the lounge. He'd had the presence of mind to grab the atlas, but that would do them no good unless and until they got out of the Ark.

_Got out of the Ark together._

"Are we going back to the repair bay?" Dead End said, rubbing his elbow.

Breakdown nodded. He didn't know what they'd do when they got there – if the doors didn't open automatically for the Autobot's alt-mode, he wasn't sure how to rescue Motormaster, Wildrider and Drag Strip other than ramming the doors, which was sure to attract unwanted attention. But at least they were no longer locked up, and he was driving. Best of all, the Autobots weren't likely to fire on them for fear of damaging the fire truck.

Of course, there was always the possibility that the Autobot's systems would recover from the massive electrical surge – "any moment now," Dead End had put it as they had climbed in – and then they would be either ejected or crushed as the Autobot transformed. Or the Autobot would simply drive them to the brig. _No,_ Breakdown thought. _If he tries that, I'll… I'll… _He couldn't think of any way to stop that from happening, given that Prowl had taken away all their weapons, including his knife.

That made him wonder about the Autobot's weaponry, though. He glanced away from the maze of orange passageways and looked at the dashboard. Radar screen, speedometer, fuel gauge… where was the weapons display?

"Look out!" Dead End said.

Breakdown ducked instantly – the last thing he needed was another Autobot spotting him behind the wheel – and slammed the brakes as he did so. The fire truck screeched to a halt, but as he crouched with his forehead against the steering wheel, he realized Dead End hadn't moved.

"Oh, thank God," someone called from outside. "Inferno, quick, tell Red Alert the Stun…"

Breakdown bolted upright, still keeping his foot on the brake. Two humans were sprawled in the corridor just before them, one apparently in stasis lock and the other lying stretched out beside him for some reason. Dead End rested his undamaged elbow on the windowframe and leaned out, unhurriedly.

"The Stunticons, you say?" he asked.

"They were here?" Breakdown looked around but no one else was in sight. The human gaped at them, optics very wide behind clear lenses. "Tell us where they went or I'll run you over!"

The human gulped visibly and pointed at a corridor Breakdown had just driven past. Breakdown considered running them over anyway, but doing that and then reversing would take precious seconds he couldn't spare. He threw the transmission into reverse and backed the fire truck to the corridor.

At the end of it were the small shapes of Motormaster and Wildrider, pushing Drag Strip away in a wheelchair.

Breakdown gave chase, and even considered honking the fire truck's horn when the other Stunticons only hurried away faster, but fortunately Motormaster dropped to his knees before them.

"A pity human optical systems don't have image capture capabilities," Dead End said softly. "If I took one right now, just imagine how much Drag Strip would pay for it."

Breakdown chuckled, but that reminded him of Drag Strip's condition and he was relieved when the other Stunticons piled into the fire truck's jumpseat area, which gave them a little more space. Although their seats there were back-to-back with his own, he still got a good look at them, and the sight made something tighten painfully in his chest.

They all looked terrible. Wildrider was covered in blood, although he assured them it wasn't his own. Drag Strip was in stasis lock, his skin paler than Breakdown had ever seen it. Motormaster's face was flushed and his eyes glazed, and he talked strangely, his voice slurred as though he was over-energized.

But they were together again, and Breakdown was determined to get them out of there that way.

He drove towards the entrance of the Ark, which was far more difficult than he'd expected it to be, even once he'd mastered the stick shift. Each time he drove past an Autobot, he and Dead End ducked out of sight, which meant that for a few seconds at least he was driving blind, hoping desperately that he wouldn't crash. One of the Autobots even shouted, "Hey, Inferno!" at the fire truck, but even if he'd been able to reply through a loudspeaker, Breakdown wasn't good at imitating voices, and Dead End's accent was too pronounced.

Worst of all, he still hadn't found the Autobot's weapons system. He remembered the Autobot had once extinguished him when he'd been on fire, but he had no idea which of the array of levers and switches on the dashboard had done it, and he couldn't risk just pulling things at random, at least not in the Ark. The only thing in their favor was that the Ark lacked any real access control when it came to the entrance; as long as that wasn't being guarded, he could simply drive right out.

The radio crackled. "—ferno?" a voice said over it. "Inferno, are you receiving me?"

Breakdown swallowed hard and pressed down harder on the accelerator.

"Inferno, _what's going on?_"

_Game's up_. Breakdown knew that as soon as the other Autobot failed to get an answer, he would know something was wrong. He flicked the radio off and floored the accelerator, racing past a huge red-and-white column that he realized an instant later was a leg so massive it made him feel even tinier than he was already. The Autobot spun around and Breakdown sped up even further.

"Inferno!" someone yelled from behind him, but the entrance of the Ark was in sight. Only one Autobot guarded it – a minibot, thankfully. Breakdown had a single glimpse of an orange and olive-green paintjob before he dropped out of sight, his right foot all but welded to the accelerator.

The impact drove through the fire truck's entire frame. Breakdown jolted forward hard. His forehead hit the steering-wheel, and Dead End's face connected with the dashboard. Glass shattered and metal crunched, but what really knotted Breakdown's throat shut in terror was the fire truck's slewing around. He scrambled back up, pain forgotten even in panic, and grabbed the steering-wheel, fighting to get the fire truck back under control, back in the right direction.

The minibot, one knee dented, rolled over and sat up, shaking his head in a dazed way. Breakdown felt dizzy from either fear or the blow to his forehead or both, but he gunned the accelerator again. Friction burned his palms as he spun the wheel.

The minibot could see him now.

_Please, please…_

The fire truck's engine roared. The minibot pulled a gun from subspace but the fire truck all but leaped forward. Weaving past the Autobot—and nearly skidding in the process—the fire truck burned rubber as Breakdown sped away from the Ark.

* * *

They were giving chase, Breakdown knew it. The minibot might be too badly damaged to do so, but the rest of the Autobots…

He didn't know where to go. The land around the Ark offered few hiding places for a big, bright red truck, and while the road leading up to the Autobot base wasn't asphalted, it had been driven over so repeatedly that dust was compacted to the consistency of cement. It afforded him speed, but would do the same for their pursuers. Breakdown headed for the highway in the distance, so far that the streetlights looked as small as his fingers. He tried not to look at the fuel gauge, or at the sky.

Dead End blotted blood from his face. "Ow," he said, and when Breakdown risked a glance at him, he saw how Dead End's nose was swollen and reddened, still leaking from the hit to the dashboard. Dead End said nothing more, but his mouth was set in a thin taut line.

_We're all breaking down, piece by piece. Soon there'll be nothing left—_

He grabbed the intercom speaker and pulled it towards his mouth. "Motormaster, what now? Where do we go?"

There was a heavy silence from the jumpseat area, and for a cold moment Breakdown wondered if something had happened to the three of them – without a gestalt link, they could have died without him knowing – and then Motormaster replied. "Megatron." His voice was rasping and hoarse. "He's waiting for us."

"Well, I can't drive this out to the ship," Breakdown said, more in relief than sarcasm.

"Waiting on Highway Six, you moron!" Motormaster snapped.

"_Where_ on Highway Six?"

Another pause. Breakdown began to wonder exactly how Motormaster knew Megatron was waiting for them—it wasn't as though they had communicators any longer. _Is he imagining things?_ He could tell Motormaster was injured, and mechs with CPU damage sometimes saw or heard things that weren't real.

"I don't know," Motormaster finally said, and there was a leaden weight of exhaustion in the words.

Suddenly Breakdown felt worse than when they had crashed into the minibot. "Can you narrow it down?" he said. In the fire truck's side mirror, he saw the side of the volcano and the engines of the crashed Autobot ship growing smaller, but a cloud of dust was growing at the Ark's entrance as the Autobots drove out. "I think that's Highway Six in the distance—"

"It is," Dead End said, his voice muffled through the paper napkins he held to his nose. He flicked the atlas open with his free hand.

"—but which way should I go? North or south?"

"I don't know!" Even the tinny sound of the intercom couldn't disguise the growing anger in Motormaster's voice—it was more familiar to Breakdown than the flat, dull weariness he had heard earlier, but he was still glad a row of upright seat backs separated them. "Megatron didn't tell me that!"

"How could he even tell you about Highway Six? The Autobots would be there by now if—"

"He's not as big a fool as you are." Motormaster sounded as though he was speaking through clenched teeth. "He said 'highway' and then he said 'six'. At different times in our talk."

"That's _it_?" Breakdown glanced from the road ahead to the Autobots behind them. "That's why you think he's waiting on Highway Six?"

"We should be grateful he didn't say 'Cybertron'," was Dead End's contribution.

"So does he want us to just drive up and down Highway Six till we find him?" Wildrider said in the background. "'Cause I don't think Drag Strip can last that long without repairs."

Motormaster's breathing was audible. "Listen to me," he said softly, and suddenly there was no pain or exhaustion in his voice. He spoke with all the icy authority and unstoppable force he had once wielded. The cold crushing certainty in his voice made it sound as though it came from an abyss as deep as a black hole, drawing everything else down inexorably into itself, exerting a power and a pull that could never be escaped.

"Megatron wouldn't have attacked the Ark. He wanted us to come to him. And to lure all those idiots into a trap, if my guess is right. He told me about Highway Six. He's waiting there, somewhere. We have to figure out where."

The short curt sentences, Breakdown thought absently, were the only indication that Motormaster was seriously hurt. He took a look at the side-view mirror again. In the sky was a red-and-white blur—the Protectobot helicopter, Blades—flying well ahead of the pursuing pack of ground vehicles and closing in on them.

But Breakdown no longer felt afraid.

He'd always been far more afraid of Motormaster than the Autobots, anyway.

Dead End's brows came together. "What else did Megatron say? He must have given you more information than that. Perhaps you just didn't recognize it." He paused, as if waiting. "Something that might have appeared irrelevant or meaningless at the time—even something he said to someone else."

"He wouldn't waste time with irrelevancies." Motormaster hesitated. "But… when Prime refused to turn us over to him, Megatron said that somewhere a village was missing its idiot."

"That's just an insult," Breakdown said, steering the fire truck towards the access road that led to the highway. Behind, he saw flashing strobe lights as the Autobot police cars, leading the pack, began to close in.

"I know it's an insult!" Motormaster snapped. "But he looked at me when he said it. And… it's the only thing I can think of."

Dead End nodded slowly. "That has to be it."

Breakdown glanced at him. "What?"

"There's a ghost town about fifty miles away," Dead End said, tapping a page in the atlas. "Called Idiotville, in a refreshing example of human honesty. . Idiot Creek Road comes within a few miles of Highway Six." He lowered the wad of bloodstained paper napkins. "That must be the meeting-point."*

There was a brief pause. "Take us there," Motormaster said in a whisper, as if even his strength had finally given out. "Megatron… waiting."

_Take us there. Easier said than done._ The Autobots were so close that Breakdown could hear the howl of their engines, and the sirens screaming over it all.

When he'd been in his true frame, he'd once been pursued by those two Autobot police cars, the kind of high-speed chase all the Stunticons loved. The Autobots were careful to stay just out of his engine range, but he couldn't shake them. He could have taken to the sky, but a TV news chopper had been hovering overhead, filming him, cameras and humans watching—

Fighting a fear he knew would envelop his mind like a choking cloud at any moment, he suddenly decided to give them something to look at. He never knew if the impulse was spillover from Wildrider's or Drag Strip's side of the gestalt bond, but he put on an abrupt burst of speed and drew ahead of the police cars by sixty yards.

Then he spun into the tightest of U-turns, a hairpin maneuver that would have had anyone but a Stunticon skidding or losing control. He floored his accelerator and raced towards the police cars. They tried to veer away to avoid the collision. Breakdown shot between them like a bullet, so close his doors almost kissed theirs, and tore away at top speed in the opposite direction before they could turn—and since he wasn't followed, he could only assume his engine vibrations had taken care of them.

No such driving was possible with the heavy, bulky and unmaneuverable fire truck, of course. The Autobots couldn't pit it or try to slam it to a halt, but there was nothing to stop them firing at the rear tires either. Only the cloud of dust in the fire truck's wake reduced the likelihood of their shots connecting. The helicopter whirred overhead, and the old familiar fear began to close its cold fingers around Breakdown's throat.

"We're doomed, aren't we?" Dead End said, his voice calm and very slightly ironic.

Breakdown glanced at him, and the muscles in his back tightened, straightening his spine. _No, we're not. _He could never give in to his fears when his team's safety depended on him.

He just wished he could think of what to do.

Cars sped by on the highway, parallel to him. He knew he would be on Highway Six in a matter of moments, but the Autobots knew that too. Suddenly the helicopter fired.

Breakdown gasped, jerking back. The shots weren't aimed at the fire truck but at the road directly ahead—though they nearly sent him slewing into the guardrail anyway. White-hot light gouged smoking craters out of the asphalt. Breakdown's fingers tightened on the wheel until they went numb. He pulled hard and veered the fire truck around the pits in the road.

_All right, if that's how you want to play it._ Suddenly he didn't care what the levers on the fire truck's dashboard did, as long as they did _something_. There were two red switches near his left hand, so he hit one of those.

There was a muffled growl that seemed to come from beneath the fire truck. _A generator_, Breakdown thought as he hit the switch again to turn it off. He brought the heel of his hand down on the second switch.

Far to the rear of the fire truck, something clicked.

The roar that Breakdown heard next was the deep sound of a thousand gallons of rushing water. The discharge outlet in the back of the fire truck snapped open. All the water in the fire truck's drop tank thundered out in a great wave that washed over the Autobots. Breakdown slewed on to the highway. He had one glimpse of a blue Autobot car hydroplaning off the road, and then he was clear of them.

Dead End said something about the Autobots being a little cleaner now, but Breakdown barely heard him, because Motormaster chose that moment to pull down the seat backs separating him from the driver's compartment. Breakdown looked in the rearview mirror to meet Motormaster's eyes.

"How's Drag Strip?" he said.

Motormaster said nothing for a moment. "Not good. Just keep going."

Breakdown ground his foot down on the accelerator as he yanked the wheel to the left. The fire truck slewed, rocking a little on its tires, and then plunged into the traffic on Highway Six.

He flipped on both lights and siren; with a helicopter still tailing them, there was no chance of stealth at all. Cars ahead swerved aside. He threw the fire truck's engine into overdrive and felt the vehicle's entire frame jolt in response before it roared on. They were low on fuel, but he felt sure they would reach the meeting-point before—

A motorcycle appeared in a side-view mirror. Breakdown could have recognized any of the Autobot scouts in the dark and with all of his sensors offline, so he knew in the next second it was the Protectobot Groove. First Aid was riding him, steering expertly between the cars. Breakdown tensed. Even if the fire truck's water tank hadn't been empty now, he couldn't waste that on just one Autobot… two, if he counted First Aid.

Motormaster followed his line of sight. Gripping one seat back and leaning against the other, he gave a fractional shake of his head. "Forget about them… not dangerous."

"No," Dead End agreed. "That would be _him._"

Breakdown glanced at the other sideview mirror. A red-and-white Lamborghini was closing in fast.

He'd dropped the intercom speaker and it was rolling back and forth with the fire truck's jolting. Motormaster picked it up as if it weighed more than Blitzwing. "Wildrider." The word was a gasp. "Get out… roof…"

"Gotcha, boss," Wildrider said, and Breakdown heard the sound of glass shattering. "I'll be back, sunshine!" he said, though there was no reply from Drag Strip.

The road before them was clearing, with only one or two cars ahead that Breakdown could see. He sped up further.

The Lamborghini, far more maneuverable than the fire truck, dodged and weaved from side to side, though it never tried to draw ahead. _That might be our only chance_, Breakdown thought. He heard a thumping overhead as Wildrider gained the roof, and several thuds as something was unraveled.

"_Now_, Breaks!" Wildrider yelled. Breakdown had no idea which of the switches on the dashboard released the fire-retardant foam, so he threw them all.

The ladder rattled loose from its moorings and another hatch popped open, but the hose worked as well, spraying foam behind them in a white arc. Foam spattered over the Lamborghini and plastered the road thickly. The Lamborghini skidded out of control, going headlight-to-guardrail in a shattering collision.

But he was transforming as he did so. He ended up on one knee, optics blazing with fury.

His shoulder-mounted cannon glowed even brighter.

Breakdown saw something blur past them and the road exploded before him. He drove headlong into a cloud of smoke so thick he couldn't see anything before the windshield, and he took his foot off the accelerator reflexively.

If not for that, they would have been killed seconds later. The fire truck's front right wheel plunged into a rut in the road. Breakdown never knew whether it had been dug out by the Lamborghini's missile or whether it had been there all along, but either way the effect was the same.

The fire truck lurched forward hard, all speed killed. Breakdown got the lower edge of the steering wheel in his stomach, so hard that his vision went white. Wildrider lost his balance, and only escaped being flung onto the road when he grabbed the edge of the ladder. Since that was loose, he ended up sliding off the roof entirely, dangling helplessly before the windshield.

Breakdown shook his head dazedly, tasting blood in his mouth. He blinked his vision clear. Equipment that had slid about inside the fire truck rattled to a halt. Dead End had put his seatbelt on after their last collision, which had spared him going to face-to-windshield again, but now he slumped in his seat as though the belt was the only thing holding him upright. Motormaster pushed himself away with a grunt and went to see to Drag Strip, while Breakdown tried to get the wheel out.

The fire truck's engine revved in a snarl. Breakdown felt the force of the trapped wheel straining to break free, but nothing happened. Before him, Wildrider still hung from the tilting ladder.

Behind him, the red-and-white Autobot rose to his feet and drew a gun.

Breakdown worked the gearshift back and forth desperately. Gears ground together in the transmission, but even putting the fire truck into reverse didn't get the wheel out. He smelled burning rubber and metal hot with friction.

"Inferno!" The other Autobot broke into a run towards them.

"Breaks, let it go!" Wildrider screamed.

"Let what go?" Breakdown could see the Autobot's form growing larger in the rearview mirror.

"The ladder! Let it—" Wildrider's yell was cut off as Breakdown flipped the switch, and the rest of the ladder rattled free, taking Wildrider with it as it slanted down to the ground. The moment Wildrider's feet touched the ground, he sprang to one side, braced his legs apart and pulled the ladder down to lie flat on the road.

He shoved the end of it beneath the trapped wheel. The wheel rode up the ladder, cracking it in two from the fire truck's weight—but by then the fire truck was free again. It drove on and Wildrider leaped to catch the door Dead End threw open just in time.

"Wait for me, guys," he said breathlessly, laughing as Dead End hauled him into the driver's compartment. Breakdown smashed the accelerator flat and stole a glance at the odometer. _Ten miles more until the meeting-point… or what Motormaster thinks is the meeting-point._. He wished there were some signs of Decepticon activity that would have convinced him.

The only consolation was that they'd left the Autobots behind. Even Groove was no longer in sight, though Breakdown knew only too well that scouts had a way of not being seen.

"There," Dead End said a few moments later.

Breakdown pulled to a halt. The highway was quiet and deserted, although his fuel pump never stopped thudding like a drum. He looked where Dead End pointed and saw… nothing.

Beyond the guardrail, the ground sloped off gently into thick scrub, low dusty trees and bushes clustered together so thickly nothing was visible beyond them. There was no sign Decepticons had ever even seen the location, though he knew Megatron wasn't likely to have blazoned a trail Autobots could follow easily.

"Idiot Creek Road… Wildrider, kindly get your knee out of my lap… is in that direction. We have to head that way."

Breakdown took a look in the rearview mirror. No Autobots on the highway… but that white speck in the sky was the 'copter, still following them. They had to reach Megatron fast; he didn't know how much longer they could last as humans.

_No easy way through the scrub, though_. The fire truck was big and bulky, good for ramming past the small trees, but without a forcefield it might not be able to take much more pounding. And he wasn't sure how far they had to drive to find Megatron.

He took his foot off the brake and turned the wheel. The engine rumbled, vibrating through the fire truck's frame, but the fire truck didn't move.

_Don't stall now!_ Breakdown yanked the gearshift and abruptly it moved—putting the fire truck into reverse. The accelerator depressed. Both lights and siren switched themselves off as the fire truck lurched back, away from the point on the guardrail he'd aimed for.

"What the frag—" Breakdown grabbed the wheel, but it wrenched in the opposite direction. Dead End's eyes widened, and he glanced at the dashboard as the fire truck began to pick up speed.

Wildrider leaped across him for the door. Before he could yank it open, every lock thudded down.

"You little pack of freaks," a voice growled from the speakers. "Hope _you_ like feeling helpless for a change!"

_No!_ _Not after we've come so far! _Breakdown reached for the ignition key, only to remember that there was none. And if he tried yanking out the wires beneath the dashboard, the Autobot might become angry enough to transform and kill them all.

"And now you know what it's like for humans when you threaten them," the Autobot said grimly. "So don't move or—"

There was a soft _phut_ and the fire truck's frame jolted. He weaved across the highway before he could stabilize again, and Breakdown, glancing wildly around, saw glowing gold optics half hidden in leaves and shadows just beyond the guardrail. A laser fired again and another tire burst. The fire truck lurched to a halt.

Before he could do anything else, the third laserbolt hit the door on the driver's side. The lock glowed red, and Breakdown twisted around. One arm braced on the seat back and another clutching the dashboard, he kicked out with all his strength. Both feet hit the door and it popped open.

Across the highway, Laserbeak and Buzzsaw poked their heads out from a low, thick shrub and seemed to be having a spirited discussion about which of them had won the shooting competition.

"Two in the bush!" Wildrider giggled as he leaped free of the fire truck. Motormaster was already carrying Drag Strip out through an open hatchway, but he swayed so badly that Dead End had to support both of them. Breakdown staggered out, barely resisting an impulse to hold on to the fire truck for support. He still felt as though the world was moving beneath his feet.

The fire truck shuddered, components sliding and seams parting as the Autobot struggled to transform.

"Quick, you two!" Dead End snapped. "Get them!"

For a moment Breakdown thought Dead End was talking to him and Wildrider, before Laserbeak and Buzzsaw gunned their turbines and flew towards them. They whirred overhead in bright streaks and wheeled about tightly. Breakdown had never been so glad to see them.

The fire truck transformed. Buzzsaw touched down and closed his beak carefully around Drag Strip's limp body. Laserbeak didn't even bother landing; he snagged the back of Motormaster's shirt in his claws and flew off at top speed as the fire truck turned.

One massive red foot lifted. With a muffled squawk, Buzzsaw lit his engines and zoomed away an instant before the Autobot brought his foot down with crushing force. The impact was so hard that Breakdown staggered all over again.

"Breaks!" Wildrider yelled. "Hurry!"

He and Dead End were already at the guardrail. Breakdown broke into a stumbling lope towards them, terrified that any moment the Autobot would stomp on him. It didn't happen, but as he flung himself headlong at the guardrail he heard a _clack-snap_ behind him that he guessed was the Autobot trying to grab him and barely missing. Wildrider pulled him over the guardrail bodily, but lost his footing in the process.

The two of them rolled to the bottom of the slope in a small dirtslide, fetching up against a bush with Wildrider on top. He sprang up, caught Breakdown by the collar of his shirt and dragged him deeper into the thick cover of the shrubs just as the Autobot leaned over to see where they had gone. Dead End grabbed Breakdown's arm, pulling him to his feet.

Dizzily, Breakdown shook his head. He kept hearing a whirring, humming sound and thought it was his audials glitching after the fall. Then something cut even the fragmented sunlight off and he realized it was the Protectobot 'copter flying overhead.

He dropped to a crouch immediately, pulling Dead End with him. Their clothes were covered with dust and there were twisted trees all around. Shrunken through the vegetation was, there should have been more than enough of it to conceal them from the 'copter as long as they didn't move.

But a moment later he realized they weren't the target. Blades fired at something in the air and Laserbeak's high-pitched screech was part fury and part pain. Breakdown couldn't see what had happened to the condor or to Motormaster, but when he dared to straighten up, he saw Blades fly on, still firing.

The fusion cannon blast that roared straight up from the ground was the color of boiling energon, and a thousand times hotter. If Blades had not had the ability to spin on a dime in mid-air, he would have been disintegrated. As it was, he saw the shot almost too late and veered sharply, but Breakdown saw it lick at his side.

It blistered paint and melted steel and turned circuits to a congealed mass. A choked howl rang out, and Breakdown fought an urge to cheer as the Protectobot retreated back to the highway in a wobbling flight.

"At least we know Megatron's here," Dead End said.

"Yeah," Wildrider said. "I'm guessing he set _these_ up."

He pulled a waist-high shrub aside and Breakdown saw an automatic gunpost swivel to point at them. Its targeting lenses flipped up and the redlighted ammunition chamber was clearly primed.

Dead End's fingers tightened on Breakdown's arm, but neither of them dared move otherwise. Wildrider patted the gunpost on its upper surface and grinned.

"It's not going to shoot _humans_," he said. "Hey, shall I try to get Big Red back there to chase us into the kill zone?"

"No," Dead End said firmly. Breakdown nodded; Big Red seemed to be waiting for reinforcements, and they couldn't risk Wildrider running back into danger and maybe getting caught. "Let's just go before…"

He paused. Engines rumbled in the distance, growing louder.

Wildrider had found another gunpost twenty feet away, but he propped a few branches before it. Breakdown swallowed hard and began to limp away from the slope, heading between the gunposts. He'd struck his knee against something when he'd landed, and it throbbed, but too close behind he heard tires screeching to a halt as someone braked on the highway.

Dead End supported him as he struggled on. He would have given anything for the sight of Megatron or Soundwave, but ahead there was only more stubby trees, more Earth foliage dulled with dust. Over the now-constant grate of engines turning over, someone shouted an order to them to come out of there.

Then there was a thudding impact as an Autobot leaped down the slope in pursuit. Teeth gritted, Breakdown hurried faster. The gunposts might not have been programmed to fire at humans, but that would make little difference if they were in the kill zone when the Autobot entered it.

Loose pebbles and dead leaves shifted underfoot as he struggled on, and he strained equally hard to hear what was happening. From the sound of it, only one Autobot was pushing through the shrubs, heading for them.

_Just one? _Sending one Autobot alone and ahead of the others didn't seem like something Optimus Prime would have done unless that 'bot was a scout, but this one was making too much noise for a scout.

Both gunposts fired simultaneously.

Dead End yanked Breakdown behind the trunk of a tree slightly larger than the others, gripping him tightly as his knee buckled. Panting, Breakdown clung to him, using Dead End's body as support so he could lean out to see what was happening. Something was wrong. He should have heard gunfire searing through armor by now, punching through joints; he should have heard the Autobot's screams of pain—

Laserbolts spattered off a forcefield in firework flares, doing no damage at all. Behind the sphere of the forcefield, the dark shape of the Autobot moved steadily onward. He pointed at one of the gunposts and his hand retracted. Breakdown ducked back behind the tree.

The gunpost exploded and a thick cloud of smoke rolled forward. Breakdown took advantage of it, stumbling onward as the Autobot fired another projectile. The chatter of automatic laser discharge stopped abruptly.

Sweat ran down Breakdown's face and he could barely see. Even Wildrider was nowhere in sight. He felt as though he had been staggering on for miles, without any end in sight, and when the Autobot bellowed an order to stop, he dropped to his knees. He knew he couldn't assume they'd been spotted, knew too that the Autobot wasn't likely to fire on them, but he couldn't go any further. The world was a furnace filled with dust and he was in the middle of it.

A large blue hand flashed into his blurred vision, grabbed the front of his shirt and hauled him to his feet. Before he could do more than gasp, he was spun around and pulled against a hard blocky frame. Dials and circuitry dug into his back.

Both he and the Autobot froze. The Autobot had another projectile ready to fire, but he didn't move. Breakdown struggled to get free and dive for cover, but the blue arm around his chest was like an iron band.

"Hey!" Rumble yelled over Breakdown's shoulder at the Autobot. "No shooting, OK? You'll kill poor little… human!"

"Then let him go," the Autobot replied. He paced forward slowly, crushing half-dead vegetation underfoot, making a clear path for the other Autobots. Breakdown could hear them piling down the slope, and although he knew they would see him in the next moment—and then they'd look at him and watch him all they liked—he couldn't tear his eyes away from the faint shimmer of the Autobot's forcefield in the air.

Rumble backed away, still holding Breakdown before him like a shield. "Aw, c'mon, pick on someone your own size!"

The Autobot came on with a measured tread. Dead End was only a few yards away, trying to stay behind the shelter of trees and bushes while still keeping pace with Rumble, but Breakdown knew there was nothing he could do to stop the Autobot—who was only the vanguard. Through rising dust he saw flashes of metallic red and bright yellow and gleaming white as more Autobots hurried to provide reinforcements.

"Hold still, OK?" Rumble whispered and dropped to his knees. Before Breakdown could ask what the frag he was doing, he felt Rumble pull a gun from subspace. The weapon's shape was only too distinguishable against his back, and he cringed involuntarily. He wasn't afraid that Rumble would hurt him deliberately, but if Rumble shot at the Autobots and they shot back—

Still using him as a shield, Rumble tilted the gun at an angle and snapped off one shot.

Breakdown jolted, but the laserbolt hit something half-buried in the ground. It sparked, and a line of fire raced towards the Autobots. Rumble surged up, grabbed him and threw him to one side like a sandbag, then leaped on top of him.

Breakdown heard a low deep _whump_, like unseen fists striking both his audials, and for a dazed moment he thought it was the sound of his own frame imploding under Rumble's weight. Then a wave of heat, so thick as to be nearly solid, washed over him and crackling flames nearly drowned out the shouts of the Autobots.

"Yeah!" Rumble said, punching the air enthusiastically, and leaped up again. Breakdown sucked in a breath and raised himself on wobbly elbows, only to be jerked up as Rumble grabbed his collar and began to drag him away.

Where the Autobots had been was a lake of fire. Nearly all of them had retreated from the fierce heat—Breakdown smelled gasoline and started coughing—but just before Rumble hauled him out of sight, he saw a huge blue shape lumber into the conflagration. A moment later there was a loud hissing sound as the Protectobot fire engine began to spray water on the flames, and a billowing cloud of steam hid everything else from view.

"We're nearly there!" Rumble yelled at Dead End as he caught up. He pointed.

A ridge of rock—barely shelter for a Cybertronian, but easily three times Breakdown's height—jutted up from the middle of the scrub. A single tree grew from its apex, and something metallic gold and black perched in its branches—but before that could reassure Breakdown, he saw pale specks in the sky beyond the tree. They were still a long way off, but closing in at speed, a speed greater than any Stunticon was capable of.

_Aerialbots._

He staggered and would have fallen if Rumble hadn't dragged him on heedlessly, scraping his knees against the ground. "C'mon, hurry up! Megatron's just behind that!" The Cassetticon paused only long enough to fire at the Autobot helicopter as it made a jerky pass overhead, but that was enough time for Breakdown to get to his feet again. Motormaster had been right about Megatron's plan—he'd known all along that if they escaped from the Ark, the Autobots would give chase in force, so why not lead them into a few traps and then fight it out?

_If we can just get to safety before we're caught in the crossfire_…

Teeth set, he lurched after Rumble. The fire must have been finally extinguished, because he heard the Autobots plowing through the scrub after them, charred bushes gritting to carbon powder under their tires. Overhead, the 'copter flew in a wobbling circle. Breakdown frowned, wishing he wasn't so tired he could barely think. The Protectobot was planning something, he knew it. Was he hoping Megatron would keep firing at him and exhaust his cannon's charge?

Megatron, naturally, did the unexpected. He sprang to his feet, wrenched the single tree loose from the ridge of rock and flung it at Blades.

The helicopter wheeled desperately to avoid it, slewing so low over the trees that the backwash of air from the rotors hit Breakdown full in the face. Before his optics shut instinctively, though, he saw who was inside the 'copter… and he knew what the Protectobot was trying to do.

He started to yell a warning, and the massive bulk of the uprooted tree flew over the Protectobot, barely missing the rotors. It would have slammed into the oncoming Autobots, if Prime hadn't fired. The tree shattered into a great mass of burning splinters that sprayed everything in the vicinity, but it was between them and the pursuing Autobots for a moment longer. That was all the time Rumble needed to grab both him and Dead End before soaring up from the ground and over the ridge of rock. If the Autobots fired on them, they missed. Rumble hit the ground just before Megatron, dropped Breakdown and Dead End unceremoniously at his feet and scrambled to get out of the way.

Breakdown struggled to his knees. Lime-green and purple paintjobs filled his peripheral vision, but all he saw was Megatron. His rational mind told him that what he was seeing was a giant silver figure crouched in the lee side of a rocky outcropping, but he felt as though he knelt at the foot of a mountain so high he could never even see its peak, much less reach it.

He tried to talk anyway, to tell Megatron what he'd seen.

"Hurry!" Motormaster shouted.

Breakdown started and glanced around. Motormaster was only a few yards away, crouched over Drag Strip who lay motionless on the ground. Wildrider stood over them, but Motormaster wasn't speaking to him. His stare was fixed on the Constructicon—Scrapper, Breakdown realized—who was aiming the matter-energy converter at them. Activation lights glowed, and when Scrapper pulled a lever the entire device thrummed.

Breakdown heard the low sound even over the revving of Autobot engines and the zoom of turbines as the Aerialbots closed in from the other direction.

"Now, Scrapper!" Megatron shouted, just as the Autobots rounded the ridge of rock. Scrapper reached for the device's trigger and Blades swooped in.

"He's trying to—" Breakdown yelled but no one heard him, though no one missed the helicopter either. Rumble, Laserbeak and Long Haul all fired simultaneously and blasted Blades out of the air. He fell—but as he did so, he ejected a small figure who dropped unnoticed amid the blaze of burning fuel spilling from his side. And Scrapper pulled the trigger.

The world turned white.

A distant screaming echoed in Breakdown's ears and turned to a thin metallic shriek. He felt himself being remade from the atomic level. There was a painless burst of heat in his chest, bright as the birth of a star, and then the components of his body moved as if they were pieces in a puzzle, fitted into a dozen different configurations in seconds. They whirled about him as if spun in a strong wind, thudded home and locked.

Then the faint high electronic oscillation in his audials snapped off abruptly, and he heard the shattering crash as Blades's smoking frame struck two of the Constructicons and took them all down in a sprawling heap. A blast of gunfire rang out from the Autobots' side, but Megatron's shout of fury rose above it.

"_Stunticons—_" he roared, and Motormaster's voice was an echo of thunder that completed the command.

"—_unite to form Menasor!_"

* * *

_* Authors' note : There really is an Idiotville in Oregon, with an Idiot Creek Road. According to Wikipedia, it's called that because it's so remote people thought only an idiot would work there._

_Hope you enjoyed this! Please leave a review if you did… and stay tuned for the last chapter of "Crash Course"!_


	45. Epilogue

**Epilogue**

The debriefing lasted for almost two hours, though it felt magnitudes longer to Breakdown.

After the battle Drag Strip and Motormaster had been the most badly damaged. Neither of them had been able to fly back to the _Nemesis _under their own power, so Laserbeak and Buzzsaw had been pressed into action again – and had complained every mechanometer of the way about the increased weight. Drag Strip had been sent to the repair bay immediately, but Motormaster had been in somewhat less danger of falling into stasis lock—and Breakdown knew that even if he had, he would never have admitted it, least of all to Megatron.

Besides, Megatron had demanded to know exactly what had happened to them, and after months of not being able to speak to their commander, Motormaster wasn't going to put that off a minute longer.

He did send Wildrider to the repair bay as well—supposedly to get fixed, but they all knew it was because Wildrider couldn't have kept still and quiet if he'd been shot with a null ray. So Dead End and Breakdown flanked Motormaster instead as he stood in the command centre and made his lengthy report.

Breakdown wished they could have been debriefed in private, but of course that wasn't going to happen. Soundwave was present as well, a silent listener and recorder, though Rumble and Frenzy more than made up for that. He guessed they were supposed to be on monitor duty, but they gave the screens only desultory attention while they snickered quietly at Motormaster's report.

The only consolation, as far as Breakdown was concerned, was that Megatron had made it clear he didn't want to hear _all_ the details of their human lives. "You will tell me how this occurred, Motormaster, and how you came to be captured by the Autobots rather than making contact with us. But I have no interest in your experiences as an… organic," Megatron's lip components curled in distaste, "… unless the information is relevant to our war or will give us an advantage against the Autobots."

Breakdown felt disappointed, since that meant Motormaster wouldn't have to squirm under Megatron's incredulous stare as he described how he'd been 'facing a human for free coffee. Still, that also meant the debriefing wasn't likely to take _too_ long, so he resigned himself to wait. He would have liked to edge sideways until he was behind Motormaster entirely, but with Megatron looking at them he didn't dare move.

Against Motormaster's dark paint, rents and burns looked even darker. His self-repair systems had sealed off the worst of the leaks, but motor oil and joint lubricant glistened on his chassis, and he wore them as he would have flaunted Optimus Prime's spilled fuel. His grille was a molten ruin and one side of his cowling crushed, but his stance was as proud and immovable as ever. When he started to speak, Breakdown heard the faint crackle of static in his vocalizer, but that was the only sign of what he'd gone through in the last hour – and the last two months.

They'd forgotten most of it when they'd combined. Not just because their individual personalities sank down, subsumed into the greater whole that was Menasor, but because for the first time in their existence, they had been truly united.

Menasor nearly always awoke in anger, because Motormaster detested knowing their weaknesses even more intimately than usual, and they loathed feeling anything about him. The bitter roiling reaction usually worked against them, making their combined form unstable as the different parts of Menasor's mind tangled in subliminal chaos.

But whenever the huge gestalt had a different target, one they _all_ hated, that anger focused outwards.

So when Menasor had woken for the first time since their change and onlined his optics to the sight of an army of attacking Autobots, they'd been united in their fury, locked together with a single purpose – to crush all those who threatened them. Strength and determination and fearlessness fused with a fierce joy at the rightness of being one again, and Menasor waded into battle with all the unstoppable force of a tornado.

He was outnumbered, of course. Megatron had brought only a few Decepticons with him, aware that greater numbers meant a greater risk of revealing their position. But for all their increased numbers, the Autobots didn't have a functional gestalt. For some reason only four Aerialbots had made it to the battlefield.

There _were_ five Protectobots by then, because no one had realized Breakdown was trying to warn them about the Protectobot helicopter sneaking First Aid into the blast zone. So First Aid's inadvertent transformation occurred behind enemy lines, which might have spelled trouble if the ambulance had not been the worst possible fighter. As for the helicopter, he was too badly damaged from all the fire he'd taken to stand up, much less combine, and was in stasis lock by the time the rest of the Protectobots managed to reach him.

The other Autobots concentrated their shots on Menasor's torso, trying to overwhelm the forcefield, but Menasor charged at them and the Decepticons stayed close behind, using him as cover to shoot back. Only when the Aerialbots swooped low and added their much greater firepower to the assault did Megatron call a retreat, and by then most of the Autobots had fallen back as well.

Menasor's forcefield had gone down too, but the shots that connected were as remote and unimportant as the order to disengage. After far too long being separated, far too long being small and weak and vulnerable, the Stunticons' fuel was boiling for a real battle, and Megatron's roared commands went unnoticed. Breakdown thought later that Megatron had probably been nanoseconds away from shooting Menasor just to get his attention. Fortunately for them all, Soundwave had reached into the raging depths of the gestalt's mind, forcing the fury down under his cold calm authority.

Still seething, Menasor had broken off the battle, and with the common enemy gone, his mind had fragmented into five once again. Unfortunately, at some point during his rampage, a large and heavy foot had come down on the matter-energy converter, crushing it into powder.

None of them, including Menasor, had been angry about _that_.

Not that Breakdown would have minded saving the matter-energy convertor to use on a certain group of 'cons, like the ones who had stopped them from speaking to Megatron when they'd finally gotten through to the base. Motormaster's tone didn't change as he recounted that incident, but Breakdown felt a dark pleasure trickle through the gestalt link as Motormaster enjoyed the chance to get some of his own back.

Megatron's expression didn't change either, but Soundwave's fingers moved rapidly over his computer console, and Breakdown knew he was checking the transmission logs. Motormaster continued, describing Breakdown's plan to lure Soundwave out—for all Motormaster's faults, he gave his subordinates credit when he felt it was due, but Breakdown twitched as everyone glanced in his direction, and tried to sidle behind Motormaster again.

"I told you that wasn't a real code!" Rumble said to Frenzy. "_Looks like a bunch of gibberish some moron threw together_, I said—"

Soundwave's visor glowed and the two of them quieted down so Motormaster could continue. Megatron didn't respond until Motormaster described how the Combaticons had chased them and shot Drag Strip.

"That explains it," he said finally—and dangerously mildly, for him. "The Combaticons made a strategic withdrawal to their land base about two joors ago."

One corner of Motormaster's mouth curled up. "Permission to deal with them personally, Lord Megatron?"

"Denied," Megatron said, which Breakdown knew didn't surprise anyone—Megatron would never have condoned infighting among the ranks. "I'll handle this. Continue with your report."

Motormaster's description of events in the Autobot base was much more detailed, and by the time he finished Breakdown was longing for some energon and a long rest. At first he'd been happily distracted by the scrolling systems reports and feedback in his HUD—it was so different to look out at the world through a lens of self-aware diagnostics and powerful scanners—but now he'd gotten used to that again, he was only too aware of how tired he was. The actuators in his legs felt as though they were about to lock up from being held in the same position for too long, but even that didn't bother him as much as the grubby condition of his paintjob. He glanced sideways at Dead End. _He must hate it even worse. Maybe a wash…_

The silence stretched out once Motormaster had finished speaking, and Megatron said nothing as his red gaze moved over them slowly. That never failed to make Breakdown feel as though he was a specimen under a microscope. He stared at the floor and struggled to keep his engine at a quiet idle; sabotaging anything in the command centre would earn him a fusion cannon blast if he was lucky. And if he wasn't, Megatron might remember how the whole mess got started in the first place, and do worse than just shoot him.

But after what felt like a year, Megatron said, "Very well." Breakdown glanced up hopefully, fixing his optics on one of Megatron's knee-joints. "Dismissed. I want your team in functional order within the next joor, Motormaster. The Stunticons have been absent from their duties for too long."

Breakdown felt another wave of pleasure ripple through the gestalt link, though this one was deeply satisfied rather than malicious. He could almost hear Motormaster thinking that not only were they back to normal, they'd been returned to their place in the Decepticon ranks as well. Megatron hadn't replaced them, though Breakdown was sure he would have at least considered doing so if they'd been gone much longer.

"Yes, Lord Megatron." Motormaster saluted and walked out, Breakdown following at a quick trot and Dead End trailing behind.

Once they were outside, Motormaster stopped. "Got a comm from Scrapper," he said. "The green squad want to check us over even if we're not damaged, so you two are next in line as soon as they're done with Drag Strip. Dead End, you're first. Breakdown, you're next."

Breakdown knew better than to refuse, though the idea of _more_ mechs staring at him was depressing. His pace changed to a shuffle, so he trailed in the rear even more than Dead End as they approached their quarters, but he still spotted the message on Motormaster's door first.

"Who did that?" he said.

Motormaster turned. "Did what?" he said, then followed Breakdown's line of sight. Someone had scrawled "WELCOME BACK STUNTICONS" on his door—but the words were only about six feet off the floor, at the right height for them if they had still been human. Since that put the message on a level with Motormaster's foot, he hadn't seen it.

Dead End had stopped in his tracks when Breakdown did, and the two of them exchanged a quick glance. Motormaster was silent and immobile as he stared at the message, so Breakdown had no idea what he would do next. The security cameras were sure to have recorded the defacement, but Soundwave wasn't likely to let him review the footage.

Motormaster drew his sword. In the poorly lit corridor, the light flaring from the blade's edge was so bright it stung Breakdown's optics, so incandescent it picked out every scrape and burn on Motormaster's frame.

The sword swept down in a smooth unstoppable arc and bit into the metal of the door. Motormaster's face was twisted in pain—the only sign of the effort behind the blow—but his hand twisted the hilt even harder and metal glowed white-hot as it began to melt. The servos in Motormaster's wrist whined as he turned his hand this way and that, digging deep into the metal, slicing out the words that were illegible by then.

The defaced portion of the door, little more than a slab of slag, fell with a soft thud on the floor. Motormaster kicked it away. Both Breakdown and Dead End leaped aside as the smoking clot of half-liquefied metal flew in their direction. It sailed between them and hit the wall at the other end of the corridor, sticking to it with a heavy _plop_.

It was an unsightly mess, and the damage to Motormaster's door looked even worse. But Breakdown had glanced back just as Motormaster returned his sword to subspace, and he saw the smile that passed over Motormaster's face and was gone almost as fast.

In the dim light, purple optics glowed. "Oh yes," Motormaster said quietly. "We're back."

He hit the access panel with the heel of one hand and his door hissed open. Breakdown waited until it closed again, then took a tentative step towards his own quarters.

"Best not to bother getting _too_ clean." Dead End entered his own access code at his door. "Megatron specified duties, not assignments. We'll probably have to clean out cargo bay seven again."

Breakdown stifled a groan. That area was always getting flooded, though he didn't dare suggest the Constructicons fix the bulkheads permanently or anything. Scrapper's crew took a dim view of anyone trying to tell them how to do their jobs, and one of them might plant a camera inside of him in retaliation.

_Cameras…_ that reminded him of what he had to do next, and he had a little time even if Dead End went to the repair bay immediately. He let himself into his room.

He spent the next hour searching the walls, floor and ceiling carefully while his computer terminal ran security check after security check. He looked under his berth and then took it apart, examining it before putting it back together again. The cabinets all had anti-theft locks, but Breakdown made sure they hadn't been tampered with, then peeled all the posters and maps off the walls, scanned them and stuck them back on.

Finally he sank into his chair and looked around. He'd been so focused on first getting back there and then securing the place that he hadn't had a chance to relax and enjoy his own space—small, but his alone. And it was wonderful to have a computer again, one far more powerful and faster than their Compaq Portable III.

He felt a bit nostalgic—they'd worked so hard for that computer, after all—but when the access screen appeared he started to think of what he could do next. Motormaster would want him to track down the human Ominsky, he felt certain of _that_, but there was also that race Drag Strip had wanted to win so badly. He could try arranging for Drag Strip to enter it…

_Now what the frag was it called again?_

* * *

_Being repaired is slagging boring_, Drag Strip thought.

He couldn't move, since the Constructicons had laid him open to the core and disengaged everything below his neck. Hook had threatened to turn off everything above his neck as well if Drag Strip spoke without being spoken to, so he had no choice but to lie there and stare at the ceiling of the repair bay.

He'd done that in the Autobot repair bay as well, but that had been different—back then, he'd been numb with despair as well as damage. At one point he'd thought that he was going to die, but that had been eclipsed by the even worse fear that he would live. It was bad enough being confined to a berth for hours; he couldn't imagine what it would be like to never move under his own power again.

Now, though, he was no longer afraid—just bored, especially since he had no idea how long the repairs would take. He wished Wildrider was there to keep him company, but the Constructicons never kept Wildrider in the repair bay for a moment longer than was necessary, and _his_ repairs were always expedited.

Sighing, Drag Strip offlined his visor and let his imagination take over.

_The Tyrell P-34 gleamed in a hundred spotlights and a thousand camera flashes. Its yellow paint looked almost wet, incandescent as the heart of the sun, making the racecar a fleck of flame against the track. As it swung into the penultimate lap, only the Lotus97T, sleek and black with specially designed turning vanes painted silver, was in the lead._

_The Tyrell zoomed to catch up, its driver steering expertly to avoid the backwash of air from the Lotus's turning vanes. Engine roaring, the Lotus edged to the inside of the track. That left an opening, and the Tyrell accelerated to take it. _

_The Lotus slid sideways almost horizontally across the track, aiming for a collision. The Tyrell's driver saw the sudden looming shadow at the last moment. There was no time to dodge, no chance to speed up to get out of the way. _

_The Tyrell's driver braked instead. The Lotus's spoiler missed the Tyrell's nosecone by mere inches, and huge rear whitewalled tires flung a small cloud of dust and grit into the Tyrell's windscreen. Then the Lotus kicked off, fighting to make the most of its advantage. Its engine revved to a scream._

_But the Tyrell's driver had one final card left to play. He accelerated as well, and stayed directly behind the Lotus, out of the vortices generated by the turning vanes. In that position, there was much less air resistance—the Lotus took the brunt of that._

_The Lotus accelerated even more as they shot into the last lap. Needles on speedometer gauges touched 300 mph and edged into red zones. The Lotus was now at terminal velocity, wringing full power from its engine._

_The Tyrell, hanging tenaciously on to the black car's rear bumper like the shadow of a shadow, raced at the same speed but _wasn't _using maximum power. The Lotus's own slipstream gave the Tyrell that much of a respite. Not that that helped, since the Tyrell was still in second place. _

_The checkered flag was only two hundred yards away. _

_A hundred yards._

_Abruptly the Tyrell dived right, simultaneously applying maximum power. Fuel injectors emptied. A supercharged engine _howled_. In two seconds the Tyrell's speed passed 360 mph, and with a shriek of tortured rubber it passed the Lotus. The Lotus shifted, veering right in a last desperate attempt at a broadside slam, a maneuver that would have had _both_ cars ricocheting out of control if it had worked._

_The Tyrell's driver tightened his grip on the steering wheel, slewing the yellow racecar dangerously close to the track wall, and threw all his weight sideways. _

_The maneuver would have failed if the racecar hadn't been so light, designed to be as aerodynamic as possible. The Tyrell flipped onto three wheels. The other three rode the wall, maintaining just enough speed to slip past the Lotus completely. The moment the Tyrell was clear, the driver flung himself in the opposite direction and the car thudded down on to all six wheels. _

_With a final roar of acceleration and defiance, it shot ahead. Smoke plumed from its engine. The Lotus ripped the grey streams to ragged ribbons as it fought to catch up, but it was already too late. The flag swept down in a black-and-white arc as the Tyrell sped over the finish line._

_The announcers shouted the name of the 1988 Formula One World Champion, but the jubilant shrieks of the crowd drowned even that out. The yellow racecar came to a halt, engine still shuddering, tires burning hot to the touch. A pit crew raced up to it as the driver unbuckled his harness._

_When he stepped out of the car and pulled his helmet off, his blond hair was damp with sweat but his grin was as wide as the track itself._

Drag Strip onlined his visor again, feeling his optic ridges pull together. He hadn't expected to be a human again in the fantasy… but now that he came to think about it, he was just as superb in any shape or form. _It's all good_, he decided and let himself sink back into the wonderful moment.

_People were cheering on all sides and so many cameras were going off that they almost blinded him—though he had no difficulty spotting the gleam of the golden cup. For once, though, he looked twice at the person presenting it to him._

_Blond hair fell to her shoulders and her figure was shapely even in a jumpsuit. Her eyes were a wide clear grey that looked quicksilver in the spotlights. Drag Strip gave her a nine._

"_Hi," she said, smiling. "I'm Michelle."_

"_Well, hi there, Michelle. Here, let me take that." He reached out for the cup and she laughed before relinquishing it. He wished the other Stunticons had been there to see him. _

_One of the photographers waved at him. "Can we get a picture of you and Ms. Pfeiffer?"_

_Michelle laughed again, throatily, and pressed close to Drag Strip, one slender arm slipping around his waist as all the flashbulbs went off. _Ten_, he decided. _

_The photography session, delightful though it was, didn't last very long. Drag Strip knew he still had to make a speech of acceptance, give interviews and attend the celebration to be thrown in his honor, but Michelle told his waiting audience that he would be back in five minutes. Then she grabbed his hand and pulled him in the direction of the pit stalls. She stopped in the first unoccupied one, tossing a fire-resistant blanket over the entrance to give them a little privacy._

_Then she unzipped her jumpsuit. From throat to waist it peeled apart, and below it she wore a black patent leather costume that gleamed under the lights like a well-polished chassis and hugged her like a second skin. Drag Strip felt his mouth go dry._

"_Eleven," he breathed._

"_What?" Michelle said._

"_Never mind." Drag Strip hurried to take off his own clothes, wondering if there was any way Michelle could keep the black leather outfit on. "Too bad we only have five minutes."_

"_Well, it's more like two and a half." She slipped her arms around his neck. "Harrison Ford is waiting for you too…"_

* * *

Wildrider had forgotten his access code, so he had to wait for Soundwave to override and reset the lock. Normally that would have been last on Soundwave's list of priorities, but Wildrider drove around while he was waiting and got back into his room a few minutes later.

It was just as he had left it, the drum kit and toy cars and stuffed kangaroo still waiting for him. And he had something to add to his collection. He reached up and took a small package from subspace.

The package felt tiny and light, but it was the only thing he had brought with him out of his life as a human. As his body had expanded rapidly, his clothes and even his new yellow boots had shredded, but the package hadn't been on his body—it had been clasped tightly to his chest. And before Motormaster's roared command had spun him into a whirlwind of change, Wildrider's one thought had been to shift the package into subspace and keep it safe.

Now he took it between thumb and forefinger, then shook the contents out into his palm. Carefully he unfolded the T-shirt he had designed, pinned it to the wall and stepped back to admire it.

The image on the front was of the five of them. Breakdown was scouting in front, sleek low chassis all but hugging the road. Drag Strip was off to one side, a golden wedge as he did the driving-on-three-wheels maneuver he loved. Dead End raced on the other side, a glossy gleam of dark red paint and darker windows, and Motormaster filled the background like a shark herding pilot fish before it. The grey Ferrari with the red windows had soared off the road entirely, plumes of smoke trailing behind, but all the cars looked about to burst out of the picture.

And the caption below said, "_Stunticons do it at speed_."

Wildrider turned the stereo on, though he was already pleasantly aware of sound wrapping him like a forcefield—the clank and slide of armor plates and oiled joints, the soft hiss of ventilations and the gurgle of a radiator, the low purr of a high-performance engine, even the crackle of electricity racing through internal circuits. _Yeah. _

He hadn't really minded being human, but it felt good to be back in his own frame again, able to drive whenever he wanted and smash into anything in his way. He pushed the stereo's volume high. Before he could flop down on to the berth, though, he noticed a scrap of paper that had fallen to the floor while he'd been unfolding the T-shirt. He picked it up and saw it was a check.

Of course, the competition had mentioned something about a prize for the winner, but he'd thought the T-shirt had been the prize. He looked at the dollar figure printed on the check and whistled—or tried to, since his lips were no longer as flexible as a human's and he just made a funny exhaling noise instead. _Wow, all those zeros! _It was almost a pity they didn't need to pay for anything any more.

He crumpled the check, tossed it across the room and into the waste disposal chute, then settled down on his berth, one foot tapping along to the music.

_Yeah, _he thought happily.

* * *

The fading light of the afternoon sun outlined Breakdown's blue-and-white alt mode with a golden glow, making the fragments of broken glass embedded in his tires glint and sparkle.

Parked beside him on a ridge overlooking the highway, serenaded by the faint wail of sirens in the distance, Dead End felt his spark pulse with a familiar longing.

_Control yourself_. Being human had made him careless. He'd thought he had it under control, but the human Trevor had shown him just how wrong he was. Now that the gestalt link was active again, he needed to keep a tighter rein on his emotions. One slip could ruin everything.

"I guess we're all back to normal now." Breakdown's tone was tentative, uncertain. This little outing had been his idea—a chance to get out of the base and _drive_ after months of being confined to slow and clumsy, wheel-less human bodies.

"Thank Primus," he replied dryly.

A perverse part of him actually _missed_ it. Not the overall experience, which he'd found degrading and revolting in the extreme, but the nights spent with Breakdown in his arms, his breath warm against Dead End's throat…

He felt his energy field extending outward instinctively, reaching for Breakdown, and ruthlessly yanked it back. Even with the newly-restored gestalt link, that first night back in his own private quarters had been…lonely.

But things _were _back to normal, he supposed. Their true forms had been restored and they'd all been fully repaired – even Drag Strip, who'd suffered damage the humans considered irreparable. Megatron had seemed satisfied with Motormaster's report, and Motormaster in turn had been…not pleased, but at least not fragged off at them. They'd returned to the base and resumed their duties.

_Same base. Same duties. Same gestalt. Same secrets. _He cycled his vents in a sigh, sinking lower on his tires. The persistent howl of sirens had faded, leaving only a chorus of buzzing insects to serenade them. He was about to suggest they move on when he felt the familiar press of an energy field against his own.

Dead End started, his windshield wipers flicking in surprise.

"Sorry." Breakdown shifted on his tires, their version of a shrug. "I missed feeling you."

He couldn't have resisted if he'd wanted to. His energy field greeted Breakdown's like the shore embracing the tide, extending and withdrawing, mingling and parting only to merge again, over and over in an endless dance.

_Advance and retreat_. That, too, was normal. Because Breakdown didn't know, and Dead End couldn't tell him. In a gestalt, you weren't allowed to play favorites. But sometimes, during stolen moments like this, "normal" was enough.

They might have been there for minutes or hours when their comm links crackled in unison. "_Stunticons._" Motormaster's voice was cold, echoing slightly—and dark with anticipation. "_Rendezvous at the intersection of Highway 12 and the I-5. We have an assignment._"

_Same life…or what passes for it._

* * *

Motormaster drove away from the smoking ruins of the health club—a club with an upper floor used for illegal high-stakes gambling—and deleted another name from the list which scrolled up in his HUD. Breakdown hadn't been able to locate the human Ominsky's own living quarters, which had left Motormaster displeased even after Breakdown managed to explain that a loan shark was hardly likely to have his home address considerately entered into anyone's databanks.

But what Breakdown _had_ managed to do was hack into police computers, pulling up the records of every place of business Ominsky was known or suspected to have an investment in. So Motormaster leveled them all one by one, though he still hoped to find and deal with Ominsky personally once he had destroyed the loan shark's livelihood.

He would have liked to do the same to the Combaticons, but he couldn't disobey Megatron's orders, so in the three days since they had returned to the _Nemesis _he had done nothing more than drive out to the Combaticons' land base. He stayed there just long enough for the Combaticons' perimeter defenses to register his presence, then drove off again, deciding they'd be all the more unnerved if they had no idea what he was planning.

At first he was disappointed Megatron hadn't made a public example of them, but after a day or two Soundwave's cassettes set up a huge vidscreen in the mess hall and played footage of the Combaticons pursuing him and the other Stunticons. Every Decepticon who wasn't on duty crowded around to watch it. Motormaster ignored the spectacle, but he knew Onslaught would never live it down—his team might have had to deal with the embarrassment of having once been human, but the Combaticons were the team who had to suffer the ignominy of failing to defeat them as such.

"But what can you expect from mechs that _Starscream_ put together?" he overheard Drag Strip say.

Starscream was the only 'con who could and did make sarcastic comments about their human condition in Motormaster's presence, capitalizing on the fact that any physical retaliation would be treated as assault on a superior officer. It took all of Motormaster's patience not to react, especially since the other Seekers took their cues from Starscream. Although none of them were stupid enough to sneer at him to his face, they still found ways to rub it in. The latest had been sending him a package that contained scuba-diving equipment. When Motormaster caught himself imagining suitable punishments—tearing off Starscream's shoulder vents and shoving them down his throat, for one—he decided a little time away from the base would be safer for everyone.

Driving helped, systematic destruction helped even more, and Megatron comming him with a new assignment was exactly what he needed. His radar picked up the presence of two other Stunticons converging on his position at speed—Dead End and Breakdown—while Drag Strip and Wildrider commed to say they would head for the coordinates he had transmitted.

Motormaster sped up, saw a line of cars filling an entire lane of the road ahead of him and smashed into them at full speed. The impact shuddered through him deliciously; his forcefield kept the freshly applied black and purple paint from suffering so much as a scratch. He reversed, allowing the humans to stagger out of their ruined vehicles. The best part was yet to come.

He accelerated and drove forward—not at the half of the road now filled with wreckage, but at the lane beside it. Some of the humans were trying to scramble to safety across that lane, and the cars in it had stalled to let them by—or because the drivers were trying to help those too injured to move. Motormaster chuckled under his breath.

Most of the humans saw him coming and screamed, struggling and failing to get out of the way. The road was a scene of chaos, with hardly any room for the humans to maneuver, let alone their cars. Motormaster blared his horn as he bore down on them.

A taxi just ahead of him popped open a rear door and a woman stumbled out, directly into his path. Too stunned to flee, she turned to stare frozen in his direction.

It was Val.

Motormaster swerved instinctively. He changed direction so abruptly that he nearly tipped over as his center of gravity shifted, rocking on his tires until he stabilized again in the next moment. The side of his cab missed Val by three feet. He crashed through a guardrail, although he was accelerating even as he did so—otherwise his trailer, with tons of inertia, would have continued in its previous trajectory and completed the job of flattening her.

She had hurried out of the way by then. Motormaster saw that in his rear-view mirror as he drove off as fast as he could, but the sight in his side-view mirrors was more than enough to distract him. A dark-red Porsche closed in from the right while a blue-and-white Lamborghini caught up on the left. Had they seen what he'd just done?

He opened the Stunticon channel at once, but said nothing.

"Was that…?" Breakdown began.

"I believe so," Dead End replied.

"Wow. He could have turned her into minstrels."

"The word is mincemeat, Breakdown. And… she _did_ make good coffee."

THE END

* * *

_Authors' note : Batman Returns actually came out in 1992, but we just couldn't resist Drag Strip breaking his one-to-ten scale for once. _

_Thanks to all our readers and reviewers! We enjoyed writing this fic, and we hope you enjoyed reading it._

_-anon_decepticon and QoS_


End file.
